THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


m. 


THE  GARDEN  OF 
DREAMS 

MADISON   CAWEIN 

Author  of  "Intimations  of  the  Beautiful,"  "'Undertones" 
and  several  other  hooks  of  verse 


LOUISVILLE 

JOHN   P  MORTON  &  COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVI 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 
JOHN  P.  MORTON  &  COMPANY. 


PS 


TO 

MY  BROTHERS. 


762370 


Not  while  I  live  may  I  forget 
That  garden  which  my  spirit  trod ! 
Where  dreams  -were  flowers,  wild  and  wet, 
And  beautiful  as  God. 

Not  while  I  breathe,  awake,  adream, 
Shall  live  again  for  me  those  hours, 
When,  in  its  mystery  and  gleam, 
I  met  her  'mid  the  flowers. 

Eyes,  talismanic  heliotrope, 
Beneath  mesmeric  lashes,  where 
The  sorceries  of  love  and  hope 
Had  made  a  shining  lair. 

And  daydawn  brows,  wbereover  hung 
The  twilight  of  dark  locks  ;  and  lips, 
Whose  beauty  spoke  the  rose's  tongut 
Of  fragrance-voweled  drips. 

I  will  not  tell  of  cheeks  and  chin, 
That  held  me  as  sweet  language  holds  ; 
Nor  of  the  eloquence  within 
Her  bosom's  moony  molds. 

Nor  of  her  large  limbs'  languorous 
Wind-grace,  that  glanced  like  starlight  through 
Her  ardent  robe's  diaphanous 
Web  of  the  mist  and  dew. 

There  is  no  star  so  pure  and  high 
As  was  her  look  ;  no  fragrance  such 
As  her  soft  presence ;  and  no  sigh 
Of  music  like  her  touch. 

Not  while  I  live  may  I  forget 
That  garden  of  dim  dreams  !  where  1 
And  Song  within  the  spirit  met, 
Sweet  Song,  who  passed  me  by. 


CONTENTS. 

PAOB 

A  Fallen  Beech I 

The   Haunted  Woodland 3 

Discovery 4 

Comradery 5 

Occult 6 

Wood-Words 7 

The  Wind  at  Night 10 

Airy  Tongues n 

The  Hills 13 

Imperfection 14 

Arcanna 15 

Spring 15 

Response     16 

Fulfillment 16 

Transformation      17 

Omens 17 

Abandoned 18 

The  Creek  Road 19 

The  Covered  Bridge 19 

The  Hillside  Grave 20 

Simulacra 20 

Before  the  End 21 

Winter 21 

Hoar  Frost 22 

The  Winter  Moon 22 

In  Summer 23 

Rain  and  Wind 24 

Under  Arcturus 25 

October 27 

Bare  Boughs 28 


PAGE 

A  Threnody 30 

Snow     31 

Vagabonds 31 

An  Old  Song 32 

A  Rose  o'  the  Hills 33 

Dirge 34 

Rest 35 

Clairvoyance 36 

Indifference 37 

Pictured 37 

Serenade 38 

Kinship 39 

She  is  So  Much 40 

Her  Eyes 41 

Messengers 42 

At  Twenty-One 43 

Baby  Mary 44 

A  Motive  in  Gold  and  Gray 45 

A  Reed  Shaken  with  the  Wind 50 

A  Flower  of  the  Fields 71 

The  White  Vigil 73 

Too  Late 74 

Intimations 74 

Two 80 

Tones 81 

Unfulfilled 83 

Home 86 

Ashly  Mere 87 

Before  the  Tomb 88 

Revisited 89 

At  Vespers 91 

The  Creek 92 


PAGE 

Answered 93 

Woman's  Portion     95 

Finale 97 

The  Cross 98 

The  Forest  of  Dreams 99 

Lynchers 101 

Ku  Klux 102 

Rembrandts ...  103 

The  Lady  of  The  Hills 104 

Revealment 106 

Heart's  Encouragement 107 

Nightfall 108 

Pause 108 

Above  the  Vales 109 

A  Sunset  Fancy no 

The  Fen-Fire no 

To  One  Reading  the  Morte  D'Arthure in 

Strollers 112 

Haunted       114 

Praeterita 115 

The  Swashbuckler 115 

The  Witch 116 

The  Somnambulist 116 

Opium 117 

Music  and  Sleep .118 

Ambition 118 

Despondency 119 

Despair 119 

Sin     120 

Insomnia 120 

Encouragement 121 

Quatrains 122 

A  Last  Word 123 


THE  GARDEN   OF  DREAMS 


A  FALLEN  BEECH 

"^ EVERMORE  at  doorways  that  are  barken 

Shall  the  madcap  wind  knock  and  the  noonlight; 
Nor  the  circle,  which  thou  once  didst  darken, 
Shine  with  footsteps  of  the  neighboring  moonlight, 
Visitors  for  whom  thou  oft  didst  hearken. 

Nevermore,  gallooned  with  cloudy  laces, 
Shall  the  morning,  like  a  fair  freebooter, 
Make  thy  leaves  his  richest  treasure-places ; 
Nor  the  sunset,  like  a  royal  suitor, 
Clothe  thy  limbs  with  his  imperial  graces. 

And  no  more,  between  the  savage  wonder 
Of  the  sunset  and  the  moon's  up-coming, 
Shall  the  storm,  with  boisterous  hoof -beats,  under 
Thy  dark  roof  dance,  Faun-like,  to  the  humming 
Of  the  Pan-pipes  of  the  rain  and  thunder. 

Oft  the  satyr  spirit,  beauty-drunken, 
Of  the  Spring  called ;  and  the  music-measure 
Of  thy  sap  made  answer ;  and  thy  sunken 
Veins  grew  vehement  with  youth,  whose  pressure 
Swelled  thy  gnarly  muscles,  winter-shrunken. 


A  Fallen  And  the  germs,  deep  down  in  darkness  rooted, 
Beech        Bubbled  green  from  all  thy  million  oilets, 

Where  the  spirits,  rain-and-sunbeam-suited, 
Of  the  April  made  their  whispering  toilets, 
Or  within  thy  stately  shadow  footed. 

Oft  the  hours  of  blonde  Summer  tinkled 
At  the  windows  of  thy  twigs,  and  found  thee 
Bird-blithe  ;  or,  with  shapely  bodies,  twinkled 
Lissom  feet  of  naked  flowers  around  thee, 
Where  thy  mats  of  moss  lay  sunbeam-sprinkled. 

And  the  Autumn  with  his  gipsy-coated 
Troop  of  days  beneath  thy  branches  rested, 
Swarthy-faced  and  dark  of  eye ;  and  throated 
Songs  of  hunting  ;  or  with  red  hand  tested 
Every  nut-bur  that  above  him  floated. 

Then  the  Winter,  barren-browed,  but  rich  in 

Shaggy  followers  of  frost  and  freezing, 

Made  the  floor  of  thy  broad  boughs  his  kitchen, 

Trapper-like,  to  camp  in  ;  grimly  easing 

Limbs  snow-furred  and  moccasoned  with  lichen. 


Now,  alas !  no  more  do  these  invest  thee 

With  the  dignity  of  whilom  gladness  ! 

They  —  unto  whose  hearts  thou  once  confessed 

thee 

Of  thy  dreams  —  now  know  thee  not !  and  sadness 
Sits  beside  thee  where  forgot  dost  rest  thee. 


THE  HAUNTED  WOODLAND 

|-J  ERE  in  the  golden  darkness 

And  green  night  of  the  woods, 
A  flitting  form  I  follow, 
A  shadow  that  eludes  — 
Or  is  it  but  the  phantom 
Of  former  forest  moods  ? 


The  phantom  of  some  fancy 
I  knew  when  I  was  young, 
And  in  my  dreaming  boyhood, 
The  wildwood  flow'rs  among, 
Young  face  to  face  with  Faery 
Spoke  in  no  unknown  tongue. 


Blue  were  her  eyes  ,  and  golden 
The  nimbus  of   her  hair ; 
And  crimson  as  a  flower 
Her  mouth  that  kissed  me  there ; 
That  kissed  and  bade  me  follow, 
And  smiled  away  my  care. 


A  magic  and  a  marvel 
Lived  in  her  word  and  look, 
As  down  among  the  blossoms 
She  sate  me  by  the  brook, 
And  read  me  wonder-legends 
In  Nature's  Story  Book. 


The          Loved  fairy-tales  forgotten, 
Haunted   she  never  reads  again, 

Of  beautiful  enchantments 
That  haunt  the  sun  and  rain, 
And,  in  the  wind  and  water, 
Chant  a  mysterious  strain. 

And  so  I  search  the  forest, 
Wherein  my  spirit  feels, 
In  tree  or  stream  or  flower 
Herself  she  still  conceals  — 
But  now  she  flies  who  followed, 
Whom  Earth  no  more  reveals. 


DISCOVERY 

'\X/'HAT  is  it  now  that  I  shall  seek, 

Where  woods  dip  downward,  in  the  hills  ?  — 
A  mossy  nook,  a  ferny  creek, 
And  May  among  the  daffodils. 

Or  in  the  valley's  vistaed  glow, 
Past  rocks  of  terraced  trumpet-vines, 
Shall  I  behold  her  coming  slow, 
Sweet  May,  among  the  columbines  ? 

With  redbud  cheeks  and  bluet  eyes, 
Big  eyes,  the  homes  of  happiness, 
To  meet  me  with  the  old  surprise, 
Her  hoiden  hair  all  bonnetless. 


Who  waits  for  me,  where,  note  for  note,         Discovery 
The  birds  make  glad  the  forest-trees  ? 
A  dogwood  blossom  at  her  throat, 
My  May  among  the  anemones. 

As  sweetheart  breezes  kiss  the  blooms, 
And  dewdrops  drink  the  moonlight's  gleams, 
My  soul  shall  kiss  her  lips'  perfumes, 
And  drink  the  magic  of  her  dreams. 


COMRADERY 

TH  eyes  hand-arched  he  looks  into 
The  morning's  face,  then  turns  away 

With  schoolboy  feet,  all  wet  with  dew, 

Out  for  a  holiday. 

The  hill  brook  sings,  incessant  stars, 
Foam-fashioned,  on  its  restless  breast ; 
And  where  he  wades  its  water-bars 
Its  song  is  happiest. 

A  comrade  of  the  chinquapin, 
He  looks  into  its  knotted  eyes 
And  sees  its  heart ;  and,  deep  within, 
Its  soul  that  makes  him  wise. 

The  wood-thrush  knows  and  follows  him, 
Who  whistles  up  the  birds  and  bees  ; 
And  'round  him  all  the  perfumes  swim 
Of  woodland  loam  and  trees. 


Comrad-  Where'er  he  pass  the  supple  springs' 
ery  Foam-people  sing  the  flowers  awake ; 

And  sappy  lips  of  bark-clad  things 
Laugh  ripe  each  fruited  brake. 

His  touch  is  a  companionship ; 
His  word,  an  old  authority  : 
He  comes,  a  lyric  at  his  lip, 
Unstudied  Poesy. 


OCCULT 

'  INTO  the  soul's  companionship 

Of  things  that  only  seem  to  be, 
Earth  points  with  magic  fingertip 
And  bids  thee  see 
How  Fancy  keeps  thee  company. 

For  oft  at  dawn  hast  not  beheld 

A  spirit  of  prismatic  hue 

Blow  wide  the  buds,  which  night  has  swelled  ? 

And  stain  them  through 

With  heav'n's  ethereal  gold  and  blue  ? 

While  at  her  side  another  went 
With  gleams  of  enigmatic  white  ? 
A  spirit  who  distributes  scent, 
To  vale  and  height, 
In  footsteps  of  the  rosy  light  ? 
6 


And  oft  at  dusk  hast  them  not  seen  Occult 

The  star-fays  bring  their  caravans 

Of  dew,  and  glitter  all  the  green, 

Night's  shadow  tans, 

From  many  starbeam  sprinkling-cans  ? 

Nor  watched  with  these  the  elfins  go 

Who  tune  faint  instruments  ?  whose  sound 

Is  that  moon-music  insects  blow 

When  all  the  ground 

Sleeps,  and  the  night  is  hushed  around  ? 


WOOD-WORDS  j 

'"THE  spirits  of  the  forest, 

That  to  the  winds  give  voice  — 
I  lie  the  livelong  April  day 
And  wonder  what  it  is  they  say 
That  makes  the  leaves  rejoice. 

The  spirits  of  the  forest, 
That  breathe  in  bud  and  bloom  — 
I  walk  within  the  black-haw  brake 
And  wonder  how  it  is  they  make 
The  bubbles  of  perfume. 

The  spirits  of  the  forest, 

That  live  in  every  spring  — 

I  lean  above  the  brook's  bright  blue 

And  wonder  what  it  is  they  do 

That  makes  the  water  sing. 

7 


Wood-      The  spirits  of  the  forest, 
Words      That  haunt  the  sun's  green  glow  — 
Down  fungus  ways  of  fern  I  steal 
And  wonder  what  they  can  conceal, 
In  dews,  that  twinkles  so. 

The  spirits  of  the  forest, 
They  hold  me,  heart  and  hand  — 
And,  oh  !  the  bird  they  send  by  light, 
The  jack-o'-lantern  gleam  by  night, 
To  guide  to  Fairyland  ! 


II. 

The  time  when  dog-tooth  violets 
Hold  up  inverted  horns  of  gold, — 
The  elvish  cups  that  Spring  upsets 
With  dripping  feet,  when  April  wets 
The  sun-and-shadow-marbled  wold, — 

Is  come.     And  by  each  leafing  way 
The  sorrel  drops  pale  blots  of  pink ; 
And,  like  an  angled  star  a  fay 
Sets  on  her  forehead's  pallid  day, 
The  blossoms  of  the  trillium  wink. 

Within  the  vale,  by  rock  and  stream, — 

A  fragile,  fairy  porcelain, — 

Blue  as  a  baby's  eyes  a-dream, 

Tne  bluets  blow ;    and  gleam  in  gleam 

The  sun-shot  dog-woods  flash  with  rain. 


It  is  the  time  to  cast  off  care  ;  Wood- 

To  make  glad  intimates  of  these :  —  Words 

The  frank-faced  sunbeam  laughing  there  ; 
The  great-heart  wind,  that  bids  us  share 
The  optimism  of  the  trees. 

III. 

The  white  ghosts  of  the  flowers, 
The  green  ghosts  of  the  trees  : 
They  haunt  the  blooming  bowers, 
They  haunt  the  wildwood  hours, 
And  whisper  in  the  breeze. 

For  in  the  wildrose  places, 
And  on  the  beechen  knoll, 
My  soul  hath  seen  their  faces, 
My  soul  hath  met  their  races, 
And  felt  their  dim  control. 

IV. 

Crab-apple  buds,  whose  bells 
The  mouth  of  April  kissed  ; 
That  hang, — like  rosy  shells 
Around  a  naiad's  wrist, — 
Pink  as  dawn-tinted  mist. 

And  paw-paw  buds,  whose  dark 
Deep  auburn  blossoms  shake 
On  boughs, — as  'neath  the  bark 
A  dryad's  eyes  awake, — 
Brown  as  a  midnight  lake. 

9 


Wood-      These,  with  symbolic  blooms 
Words     of  wind-flower  and  wild-phlox, 
I  found  among  the  glooms 
Of  hill-lost  woods  and  rocks, 
Lairs  of  the  mink  and  fox. 

The  beetle  in  the  brush, 
The  bird  about  the  creek, 
The  bee  within  the  hush, 
And  I,  whose  heart  was  meek, 
Stood  still  to  hear  these  speak 

The  language,  that  records, 
In  flower-syllables, 
The  hieroglyphic  words 
Of  beauty,  who  enspells 
The  world  and  aye  compels. 


THE  WIND  AT  NIGHT 


^^OT  till  the  wildman  wind  is  shrill, 

Howling  upon  the  hill 

In  every  wolfish  tree,  whose  boisterous  boughs, 
Like  desperate  arms,  gesture  and  beat  the  night, 
And  down  huge  clouds,  in  chasms  of  stormy  white 
The  frightened  moon  hurries  above  the  house, 
Shall  I  lie  down  ;  and,  deep, — 
Letting  the  mad  wind  keep 
Its  shouting  revel  round  me, —  fall  asleep. 


II.  The  Wind 

at  Nigbt 

Not  till  its  dark  halloo  is  hushed, 
And  where  wild  waters  rushed, — 
Like  some  hoofed  terror  underneath  its  whip 
And  spur  of  foam,  —  remains 
A  ghostly  glass,  hill-framed  ;  whereover  stains 
Of  moony  mists  and  rains, 

And  stealthy  starbeams,  like  vague  specters,  slip  ; 
Shall  I  —  with  thoughts  that  take 
Unto  themselves  the  ache 
Of  silence  as  a  sound  —  from  sleep  awake. 


AIRY  TONGUES 

I. 

F    HEAR  a  song  the  wet  leaves  lisp 

When  Morn  comes  down  the  woodland  way ; 
And  misty  as  a  thistle-wisp 
Her  gown  gleams  windy  gray  ; 
A  song,  that  seems  to  say, 
« '  Awake  !  't  is  day  ! " 

I  hear  a  sigh,  when  Day  sits  down 
Beside  the  sunlight-lulled  lagoon  ; 
While  on  her  glistening  hair  and  gown 
The  rose  of  rest  is  strewn  ; 
A  sigh,  that  seems  to  croon, 
"Come  sleep  !   't  is  noon  !  " 


Airy         I  hear  a  whisper,  when  the  stars, 
Tongues    Upon  some  evening-purpled  height, 
Crown  the  dead  Day  with  nenuphars 
Of  dreamy  gold  and  white  ; 
A  voice,  that  seems  t'  invite, 
"  Come  love  !   't  is  night !  " 


II. 


Before  the  rathe  song-sparrow  sings 
Among  the  hawtrees  in  the  lane, 
And  to  the  wind  the  locust  flings 
Its  early  clusters  fresh  with  rain  ; 
Beyond  the  morning-star,  that  swings 
Its  rose  of  fire  above  the  spire, 
Between  the  morning's  watchet  wings, 
A  voice  that  rings  o'er  brooks  and  boughs — 
' '  Arouse  !  arouse ! " 


Before  the  first  brown  owlet  cries 
Among  the  grape-vines  on  the  hill, 
And  in  the  dam  with  half-shut  eyes 
The  lilies  rock  above  the  mill ; 
Beyond  the  oblong  moon,  that  flies 
Its  pearly  flower  above  the  tower, 
Between  the  twilight's  primrose  skies, 
A  voice  that  sighs  from  east  to  west — 
« '  To  rest  !  to  rest !  " 


THE  HILLS 

'"PHERE  is  no  joy  of  earth  that  thrills 
A     My  bosom  like  the  far-off  hills  ! 
Th'  unchanging  hills,  that,  shadowy, 
Beckon  our  mutability 
To  follow  and  to  gaze  upon 
Foundations  of  the  dusk  and  dawn. 
Meseems  the  very  heavens  are  massed 
Upon  their  shoulders,  vague  and  vast 
With  all  the  skyey  burden  of 
The  winds  and  clouds  and  stars  above. 
Lo,  how  they  sit  before  us,  seeing 
The  laws  that  give  all  Beauty  being ! 
Behold  !  to  them,  when  dawn  is  near, 
The  nomads  of  the  air  appear, 
Unfolding  crimson  camps  of  day 
In  brilliant  bands  ;  then  march  away  ; 
And  under  burning  battlements 
Of  twilight  plant  their  tinted  tents. 
The  faith  of  olden  myths,  that  brood 
By  haunted  stream  and  haunted  wood, 
They  see ;  and  feel  the  happiness 
Of  old  at  which  we  only  guess  : 
The  dreams,  the  ancients  loved  and  knew, 
Still  as  their  rocks  and  trees  are  true : 
Not  otherwise  than  presences 
The  tempest  and  the  calm  to  these  : 
One  shouting  on  them,  all  the  night, 
Black-limbed  and  veined  with  lambent  light 
The  other  with  the  ministry 
Of  all  soft  things  that  company 

13 


The  Hills  With  music — an  embodied  form, 
Giving  to  solitude  the  charm 
Of  leaves  and  waters  and  the  peace 
Of  bird-begotten  melodies — 
And  who  at  night  doth  still  confer 
With  the  mild  moon,  who  telleth  her 
Pale  tale  of  lonely  love,  until 
Wan  images  of  passion  fill 
The  heights  with  shapes  that  glimmer  by 
Clad  on  with  sleep  and  memory. 


IMPERFECTION 

^"OT  as  the  eye  hath  seen,  shall  we  behold 

Romance   and   beauty,  when  we've  passed 
away  ; 

That  robed  the  dull  facts  of  the  intimate  day 
In  life's  wild  raiment  of  unusual  gold  : 
Not  as  the  ear  hath  heard,  shall  we  be  told, 
Hereafter,  myth  and  legend  once  that  lay 
Warm  at  the  heart  of  Nature,  clothing  clay 
In  attribute  of  no  material  mold. 
These  were  imperfect  of  necessity, 
That  wrought  thro'  imperfection  for  far  ends 
Of  perfectness — As  calm  philosophy, 
Teaching  a  child,  from  his  high  heav'n  descends 
To  Earth's  familiar  things  ;  inf ormingly 
Vesting  his  thoughts  with  that  it  comprehends. 


ARCANNA 


J£ ARTH  hath  her  images  of  utterance, 

Her  hieroglyphic  meanings  which  elude ; 
A  symbol  language  of  similitude, 
Into  whose  secrets  science  may  not  glance  ; 
In  which  the  Mind-in-Nature  doth  romance 
In  miracles  that  baffle  if  pursued — 
No  guess  shall  search  them  and  no  thought  intrude 
Beyond  the  limits  of  her  sufferance. 
So  doth  the  great  Intelligence  above 
Hide  His  own  thought's  creations ;  and  attire 
Forms  in  the  dream's  ideal,  which  He  dowers 
With  immaterial  loveliness  and  love — 
As  essences  of  fragrance  and  of  fire — 
Preaching  th'  evangels  of  the  stars  and  flowers. 


SPRING 


THIRST  came  the  rain,  loud,  with  sonorous  lips; 

A  pursuivant  who  heralded  a  prince  : 
And  dawn  put  on  a  livery  of  tints, 
And  dusk  bound  gold  about  her  hair  and  hips : 
And,  all  in  silver  mail,  then  sunlight  came, 
A  knight,  who  bade  the  winter  let  him  pass, 
And  freed  imprisoned  beauty,  naked  as 
The  Court  of  Love,  in  all  her  wildflower  shame. 
And  so  she  came,  in  breeze-borne  loveliness, 
Across  the  hills ;  and  heav'n  bent  down  to  bless  : 
Before  her  face  the  birds  were  as  a  lyre ; 
And  at  her  feet,  like  some  strong  worshiper, 
The  shouting  water  psean'd  praise  of  her, 
Who,  with  blue  eyes,  set  the  wild  world  on  fire. 

15 


RESPONSE 

INHERE  is  a  music  of  immaculate  love, 

That  breathes  within   the  virginal  veins  of 

Spring : — 

And  trillium  blossoms,  like  the  stars  that  cling 
To  fairies'  wands  ;  and,  strung  on  sprays  above, 
White-hearts  and  mandrake  blooms,  that  look 

enough 

Like  the  elves'  washing,  white  with  laundering 
Of  May-moon  dews ;  and  all  pale-opening 
Wild-flowers  of  the  woods,  are  born  thereof. 
There  is  no  sod  Spring's  white  foot  brushes  but 
Must  feel  the  music  that  vibrates  within, 
And  thrill  to  the  communicated  touch 
Responsive  harmonies,  that  must  unshut 
The  heart  of  beauty  for  song's  concrete  kin, 
Emotions — that  be  flowers — born  of  such. 


FULFILLMENT 

VES,  there  are  some  who  may  look  on  these 
Essential  peoples  of  the  earth  and  air — 
That  have  the  stars  and  flowers  in  their  care — 
And  all  their  soul-suggestive  secrecies  : 
Heart-intimates  and  comrades  of  the  trees, 
Who  from  them  learn,  what  no  known  schools 

declare, 
God's  knowledge ;  and  from  winds,  that  discourse 

there, 

16 


God's  gospel  of  diviner  mysteries  :  Fulfill- 

To  whom  the  waters  shall  divulge  a  word  ment- 

Of  fuller  faith  ;  the  sunset  and  the  dawn 
Preach  sermons  more  inspired  even  than 
The  tongues  of  Penticost ;  as,  distant  heard 
In    forms    of    change,    through    Nature    upward 

drawn, 
God  doth  address  th'  immortal  soul  of  Man. 


TRANSFORMATION 

JT  is  the  time  when,  by  the  forest  falls, 

The  touchmenots  hang  fairy  folly-caps  ; 
When  ferns  and  flowers  fill  the  lichened  laps 
Of  rocks  with  color,  rich  as  orient  shawls  : 
And  in  my  heart  I  hear  a  voice  that  calls 
Me  woodward,  where  the  Hamadryad  wraps 
Her  limbs  in  bark,  or,  bubbling  in  the  saps, 
Laughs  the  sweet  Greek  of  Pan's  old  madrigals. 
There  is  a  gleam  that  lures  me  up  the  stream — 
A  Naiad  swimming  with  wet  limbs  of  light  ? 
Perfume,  that  leads  me  on  from  dream  to  dream — 
An  Oread's  footprints  fragrant  with  her  flight  ? 
And,  lo  !  meseems  I  am  a  Faun  again, 
Part  of  the  myths  that  I  pursue  in  vain. 


OMENS 

CAD  o'er  the  hills  the  poppy  sunset  died. 

Slow  as  a  fungus  breaking  through  the  crusts 
Of  forest  leaves,  the  waning  half-moon  thrusts, 

17 


Omens      Through  gray-brown  clouds,  one  milky  silver  side  ; 
In  her  vague  light  the  dogwoods,  vale-descried, 
Seem  nervous  torches  flourished  by  the  gusts  ; 
The  apple-orchards  seem  the  restless  dusts 
Of  wind-thinned  mists  upon  the  hills  they  hide. 
It  is  a  night  of  omens  whom  late  May 
Meets,  like  a  wraith,  among  her  train  of  hours  ; 
An  apparition,  with  appealing  eye 
And  hesitant  foot,  that  walks  a  willowed  way, 
And,    speaking    through    the    fading    moon    and 

flowers, 
Bids  her  prepare  her  gentle  soul  to  die. 


ABANDONED 

IP  HE  hornets  build  in  plaster-dropping  rooms, 

And  on  its  mossy  porch  the  lizard  lies  ; 
Around  its  chimneys  slow  the  swallow  flies, 
And  on  its  roof  the  locusts  snow  their  blooms. 
Like  some  sad  thought  that  broods  here,  old  per- 
fumes 

Haunt  its  dim  stairs  ;  the  cautious  zephyr  tries 
Each  gusty  door,  like  some  dead  hand,  then  sighs 
With  ghostly  lips  among  the  attic  glooms. 
And  now  a  heron,  now  a  kingfisher, 
Flits  in  the  willows  where  the  riffle  seems 
At  each  faint  fall  to  hesitate  to  leap, 
Fluttering  the  silence  with  a  little  stir. 
Here  Summer  seems  a  placid  face  asleep, 
And  the  near  world  a  figment  of  her  dreams. 

18 


THE  CREEK-ROAD 

CALLING,  the  heron  flies  athwart  the  blue 

That  sleeps  above  it ;  reach  on  rocky  reach 
Of  water  sings  by  sycamore  and  beech, 
In  whose  warm  shade  bloom  lilies  not  a  few. 
It  is  a  page  whereon  the  sun  and  dew 
Scrawl  sparkling  words  in  dawn's  delicious  speech  ; 
A  laboratory  where  the  wood-winds  teach, 
Dissect  each  scent  and  analyze  each  hue. 
Not  otherwise  than  beautiful,  doth  it 
Record  the  happ'nings  of  each  summer  day ; 
Where  we  may  read,  as  in  a  catalogue, 
When  passed  a  thresher ;  when  a  load  of  hay ; 
Or  when  a  rabbit ;  or  a  bird  that  lit ; 
And  now  a  bare-foot  truant  and  his  dog. 


THE  COVERED   BRIDGE 


from    its    entrance,    lost   in    matted 

"     vines,  — 

Where  in  the  valley  foams  a  water-fall,  — 
Is  glimpsed  a  ruined  mill's  remaining  wall  ; 
Here,  by  the  road,  the  oxeye  daisy  mines 
Hot  brass  and  bronze  ;  the  trumpet-trailer  shines 
Red  as  the  plumage  of  the  cardinal. 
Faint  from  the  forest  comes  the  rain-crow's  call 
Where  dusty  Summer  dreams  among  the  pines. 
This  is  the  spot  where  Spring  writes  wildflower 

verses 
In  primrose  pink,  while,  drowsing  o'er  his  reins, 

19 


The          The  ploughman,  all  unnoticing,  plods  along  : 
Covered    And  where  the  Autumn  opens  weedy  purses 
Bridge      Qf  sieepv  silver,  while  the  corn-heaped  wains 

Rumble  the  bridge  like  some  deep  throat  of  song. 


THE  HILLSIDE  GRAVE 

'"pEN- HUNDRED  deep  the  drifted  daisies  break 
Here  at  the  hill's  foot ;  on  its  top,  the  wheat 
Hangs  meagre-bearded  ;  and,  in  vague  retreat, 
The  wisp-like  blooms  of  the  moth-mulleins  shake. 
And  where  the  wild-pink  drops  a  crimson  flake, 
And  morning-glories,  like  young  lips,  make  sweet 
The  shaded  hush,  low  in  the  honeyed  heat, 
The  wild-bees  hum  ;  as  if  afraid  to  wake 
One  sleeping  there  ;  with  no  white  stone  to  tell 
The  story  of  existence  ;  but  the  stem 
Of  one  wild-rose,  towering  o'er  brier  and  weed, 
Where  all  the  day  the  wild-birds  requiem ; 
Within  whose  shade  the  timid  violets  spell 
An  epitaph,  only  the  stars  can  read. 

SIMULACRA 

1""\ARK  in  the  west  the  sunset's  somber  wrack 
Unrolled  vast  walls  the  rams  of  war   had 

split, 

Along  whose  battlements  the  battle  lit 
Tempestuous  beacons;    and,  with   gates   hurled 

back, 

A  mighty  city,  red  with  ruin  and  sack, 
Through  burning  breaches,  crumbling  bit  by  bit, 


Showed  where  the  God  of  Slaughter  seemed  to  sit  Sitnul- 
With  conflagration  glaring  at  each  crack.  acra' 

Who  knows  ?  perhaps  as  sleep  unto  us  makes 
Our  dreams  as  real  as  our  waking  seems 
With  recollections  time  can  not  destroy, 
So  in  the  mind  of  Nature  now  awakes 
Haply  some  wilder  memory,  and  she  dreams 
The  stormy  story  of  the  fall  of  Troy. 

BEFORE  THE  END 

t-I  OW  does  the  Autumn  in  her  mind  conclude 
The  tragic  masque  her  frosty  pencil  writes, 
Broad  on  the  pages  of  the  days  and  nights, 
In  burning  lines  of  orchard,  wold,  and  wood  ? 
What  lonelier  forms — that  at  the  year's  door  stood 
At  spectral  wait — with  wildly  wasted  lights 
Shall  enter  ?  and  with  melancholy  rites 
Inaugurate  their  sadder  sisterhood  ? — 
Sorrow,  who  lifts  a  signal  hand,  and  slow 
The  green  leaf  fevers,  falling  ere  it  dies  ; 
Regret,  whose  pale  lips  summon,  and  gaunt  Woe 
Wakes  the  wild-wind  harps  with  sonorous  sighs  ; 
And  Sleep,  who  sits  with  poppied  eyes  and  sees 
The  earth  and  sky  grow  dream -accessories. 

WINTER 

HpHE  flute,  whence  Autumn's  misty  finger-tips 
Drew  music — ripening  the  pinched  kernels  in 
The  burly  chestnut  and  the  chinquapin, 
Red-rounding-out  the  oval  haws  and  hips, — 


Winter     Now  Winter  crushes  to  his  stormy  lips 

And  surly  songs  whistle  around  his  chin  : 
Now  the  wild  days  and  wilder  nights  begin 
When,  at  the  eaves,  the  crooked  icicle  drips. 
Thy  songs,  O  Autumn,  are  not  lost  so  soon  ! 
Still  dwells  a  memory  in  thy  hollow  flute, 
Which,  unto  Winter's  masculine  airs,  doth  give 
Thy  own  creative  qualities  of  tune, 
By  which  we  see  each  bough  bend  white  with  fruit, 
Each  bush  with  bloom,  in  snow  commemorative. 

HOAR-FROST 

"PHE  frail  eidolons  of  all  blossoms  Spring, 
Year  after  year,  about  the  forest  tossed, 
The  magic  touch  of  the  enchanter,  Frost, 
Back  from  the  Heaven  of  the  Flow'rs  doth  bring  ; 
Each  branch  and  bush  in  silence  visiting 
With  phantom  beauty  of  its  blooms  long  lost : 
Each  dead  weed  bends,  white-haunted  of  its  ghost, 
Each  dead  flower  stands  ghostly  with  blossoming. 
This  is  the  wonder-legend  Nature  tells 
To  the  gray  moon  and  mist  a  winter's  night ; 
The  fairy-tale,  which  her  weird  fancy  'spells 
With  all  the  glamour  of  her  soul's  delight : 
Before  the  summoning  sorcery  of  her  eyes 
Making  her  spirit's  dream  materialize. 

THE  WINTER  MOON 

ITJEEP  in  the  dell  I  watched  her  as  she  rose, 

A  face  of  icy  fire,  o'er  the  hills  ; 
With  snow-sad  eyes  to  freeze  the  forest  rills, 


And  snow-sad  feet  to  bleach  the  meadow  snows  :  The 

Pale  as  some  young  witch  who,  a-listening,  goes     Ifin- 

To  her  first  meeting  with  the  Fiend  ;  whose  fears  ^ 

Fix  demon  eyes  behind  each  bush  she  nears  ; 

Stops,  yet  must  on,  fearful  of  following  foes. 

And  so  I  chased  her,  startled  in  the  wood, 

Like  a  discovered  Oread,  who  flies 

The  Faun  who  found  her  sleeping,  each  nude  limb 

Glittering  betrayal  through  the  solitude  ; 

Till  in  a  frosty  cloud  I  saw  her  swim, 

Like  a  drowned  face,  a  blur  beneath  the  ice. 

IN  SUMMER 

\\7"HEN  in  dry  hollows,  hilled  with  hay, 

The  vesper-sparrow  sings  afar ; 
And,  golden  gray,  dusk  dies  away 
Beneath  the  amber  evening-star  : 
There,  where  a  warm  and  shadowy  arm 
The  woodland  lays  around  the  farm, 
To  meet  you  where  we  kissed,  dear  heart, 
To  kiss  you  at  the  tryst,  dear  heart, 
To  kiss  you  at  the  tryst  ! 

When  clover  fields  smell  cool  with  dew, 
And  crickets  cry,  and  roads  are  still ; 
And  faint  and  few  the  fire-flies  strew 
The  dark  where  calls  the  whippoorwill ; 
There,  in  the  lane,  where  sweet  again 
The  petals  of  the  wild-rose  rain, 
To  stroll  with  head  to  head,  dear  heart, 
And  say  the  words  oft  said,  dear  heart, 
And  say  the  words  oft  said  ! 
23 


RAIN  AND  WIND 

T    HEAR  the  hoofs  of  horses 

Galloping  over  the  hill , 
Galloping  on  and  galloping  on, 
When  all  the  night  is  shrill 
With  wind  and  rain  that  beats  the  pane  — 
And  my  soul  with  awe  is  still. 


For  every  dripping  window 

Their  headlong  rush  makes  bound, 

Galloping  up,  and  galloping  by, 

Then  back  again  and  around, 

Till  the  gusty  roofs  ring  with  their  hoofs, 

And  the  draughty  cellars  sound. 


And  then  I  hear  black  horsemen 

Hallooing  in  the  night ; 

Hallooing  and  hallooing, 

They  ride  o'er  vale  and  height, 

And  the  branches  snap  and  the  shutters  clap 

With  the  fury  of  their  flight. 


Then  at  each  door  a  horseman, — 

With  burly  bearded  lip 

Hallooing  through  the  keyhole, — 

Pauses  with  cloak  a-drip  ; 

And  the  door-knob  shakes  and  the  panel  quakes 

'Neath  the  anger  of  his  whip. 

24 


All  night  I  hear  their  gallop,  Rain  at 

And  their  wild  halloo's  alarm  ;  Wind 

The  tree -tops  sound  and  vanes  go  round 

In  forest  and  on  farm ; 

But  never  a  hair  of  a  thing  is  there  — 

Only  the  wind  and  storm. 


UNDER  ARCTURUS 

I, 

44  T    BELT  the  morn  with  ribboned  mist ; 
With  baldricked  blue  I  gird  the  noon, 
And  dusk  with  purple,  crimson-kissed, 
White-buckled  with  the  hunter's  moon. 

"These  follow  me,"  the  season  says  : 
»  Mine  is  the  frost-pale  hand  that  packs 
Their  scrips,  and  speeds  them  on  their  ways, 
With  gipsy  gold  that  weighs  their  backs." 


II. 

A  daybreak  horn  the  Autumn  blows, 
As  with  a  sun-tanned  hand  he  parts 
Wet  boughs  whereon  the  berry  glows ; 
And  at  his  feet  the  red-fox  starts. 

The  leafy  leash  that  holds  his  hounds 
Is  loosed ;  and  all  the  noonday  hush 
Is  startled ;  and  the  hillside  sounds 
Behind  the  fox's  bounding  brush. 

25 


Under       When  red  dusk  makes  the  western  sky 
Arcturus  A  fire-lit  window  through  the  firs, 
He  stoops  to  see  the  red -fox  die 
Among  the  chestnut's  broken  burs. 

Then  fanfaree  and  fanfaree, 
Down  vistas  of  the  afterglow 
His  bugle  rings  from  tree  to  tree, 
While  all  the  world  grows  hushed  below. 


III. 

Like  some  black  host  the  shadows  fall, 
And  darkness  camps  among  the  trees  ; 
Each  wildwood  road,  a  Goblin  Hall, 
Grows  populous  with  mysteries. 

Night  comes  with  brows  of  ragged  storm, 
And  limbs  of  writhen  cloud  and  mist ; 
The  rain-wind  hangs  upon  her  arm 
Like  some  wild  girl  that  will  be  kissed. 

By  her  gaunt  hand  the  leaves  are  shed 
Like  nightmares  an  enchantress  herds ; 
And,  like  a  witch  who  calls  the  dead, 
The  hill-stream  whirls  with  foaming  words. 

Then  all  is  sudden  silence  and 
Dark  fear  —  like  his  who  can  not  see, 
Yet  hears,  aye  in  a  haunted  land, 
Death  rattling  on  a  gallow's  tree. 
26 


IV.  Under 

Arcturus 

The  days  approach  again ;   the  days, 
Whose  mantles  stream,  whose  sandals  drag ; 
When  in  the  haze  by  puddled  ways 
Each  gnarled  thorn  seems  a  crooked  hag. 

When  rotting  orchards  reek  with  rain ; 
And  woodlands  crumble,  leaf  and  log ; 
And  in  the  drizzling  yard  again 
The  gourd  is  tagged  with  points  of  fog. 

Oh,  let  me  seat  my  soul  among 
Your  melancholy  moods  !  and  touch 
Your  thoughts'  sweet  sorrow  without  tongue, 
Whose  silence  says  too  much,  too  much ! 


OCTOBER 


\    ONG  hosts  of  sunlight,  and  the  bright  wind 

**     blows 

A  tourney  trumpet  on  the  listed  hill : 

Past  is  the  splendor  of  the  royal  rose 

And  duchess  daffodil. 

Crowned  queen  of  beauty,  in  the  garden's  space, 
Strong  daughter  of  a  bitter  race  and  bold, 
A  ragged  beggar  with  a  lovely  face, 
Reigns  the  sad  marigold. 

27 


October     And  I  have  sought  June's  butterfly  for  days, 
To  find  it  —  like  a  coreopsis  bloom  — 
Amber  and  seal,  rain-murdered  'neath  the  blaze 
Of  this  sunflower's  plume. 

Here  basks  the  bee ;  and  there,  sky-voyaging  wings 
Dare  God's  blue  gulfs  of  heaven  ;  the  last  song, 
The  red-bird  flings  me  as  adieu,  still  rings 
Upon  yon  pear-tree's  prong. 

No  angry  sunset  brims  with  rosier  red 
The  bowl  of  heaven  than  the  days,  indeed, 
Pour  in  each  blossom  of  this  salvia-bed, 
Where  each  leaf  seems  to  bleed. 

And  where  the  wood-gnats  dance,  a  tiny  mist, 
Above  the  efforts  of  the  weedy  stream, 
The  girl,  October,  tired  of  the  tryst, 
Dreams  a  diviner  dream. 

One  foot  just  dipping  the  caressing  wave  , 
One  knee  at  languid  angle ;   locks  that  drown 
Hands   nut-stained ;    hazel-eyed,    she    lies,    and 

grave, 
Watching  the  leaves  drift  down. 

BARE  BOUGHS 

Q   HEART,  that  beat  the  bird's  blithe  blood, 
^~^   The  blithe  bird's  message  that  pursued, 
Now  song  is  dead  as  last  year's  bud, 
What  dost  thou  in  the  wood  ? 


O  soul,  that  kept  the  brook's  glad  flow,  Bare 

The  glad  brook's  word  to  sun  and  moon,  Boughs 

What  dost  thou  here  where  song  lies  low 
As  all  the  dreams  of  June  ? 


Where  once  was  heard  a  voice  of  song, 
The  hautboys  of  the  mad  winds  sing ; 
Where  once  a  music  flowed  along, 
The  rain's  wild  bugles  ring. 

The  weedy  water  frets  and  ails, 
And  moans  in  many  a  sunless  fall ; 
And,  o'er  the  melancholy,  trails 
The  black  crow's  eldritch  call. 


Unhappy  brook  !  O  withered  wood  ! 
O  days,  whom  death  makes  comrades  of  ! 
Where  are  the  birds  that  thrilled  the  blood 
When  life  struck  hands  with  love  ? 


A  song,  one  soared  against  the  blue  ; 
A  song,  one  bubbled  in  the  leaves  : 
A  song,  one  threw  where  orchards  grew 
All  appled  to  the  eaves. 

But  now  the  birds  are  flown  or  dead  ; 
And  sky  and  earth  are  bleak  and  gray  ; 
The  wild  winds  sob  i'  the  boughs  instead, 
The  wild  leaves  sigh  i'  the  way. 

29 


A  THRENODY 

I. 

HpHE  rainy  smell  of  a  ferny  dell, 

Whose  shadow  no  sunray  flaws, 
When  Autumn  sits  in  the  wayside  weeds 
Telling  her  beads 
Of  haws. 


II. 


The  phantom  mist,  that  is  moonbeam -kissed, 
On  hills  where  the  trees  are  thinned, 
When  Autumn  leans  at  the  oak-root's  scarp, 
Playing  a  harp 
Of  wind. 

III. 

The  crickets'  chirr  'neath  brier  and  burr, 

By  leaf-strewn  pools  and  streams, 

When  Autumn  stands  'mid  the  dropping  nuts, 

With  the  book,  she  shuts, 

Of  dreams. 


IV. 

The  gray  « «  alas  "  of  the  days  that  pass, 
And  the  hope  that  says  "adieu," 
A  parting  sorrow,  a  shriveled  flower, 
And  one  ghost's  hour 
With  you. 

30 


SNOW 


HP  HE  moon,  like  a  round  device 
On  a  shadowy  shield  of  war, 
Hangs  white  in  a  heaven  of  ice 
With  a  solitary  star. 

The  wind  is  sunk  to  a  sigh, 
And  the  waters  are  stern  with  frost ; 
And  gray,  in  the  eastern  sky, 
The  last  snow-cloud  is  lost. 

White  fields,  that  are  winter- starved, 
Black  woods,  that  are  winter- fraught, 
Cold,  harsh  as  a  face  death-carved 
With  the  iron  of  some  black  thought. 


VAGABONDS 


heart's   a-tune   with   April    and    mine 
a-tune  with  June, 

So  let  us  go  a-roving  beneath  the  summer  moon  : 
Oh,  was  it  in  the  sunlight,  or  was  it  in  the  rain, 
We  met  among  the  blossoms  within  the  locust 

lane? 
All  that  I  can  remember  's  the  bird  that  sang 

aboon, 
And  with  its  music  in  our  hearts  we'll  rove  beneath 

the  moon. 


Vaga-       A  love-word  of  the  wind,  dear,  of  which  we'll  read 
bonds  the  rune, 

While  we  still  go  a-roving  beneath  the  summer 

moon: 

A  love-kiss  of  the  water  we'll  often  stop  to  hear — 
The  echoed  words  and  kisses  of  our  own  love,  my 

dear: 
And  all  our  path  shall  blossom  with  wild-rose 

sweets  that  swoon, 
And  with  their  fragrance  in  our  hearts  we'll  rove 

beneath  the  moon. 

It  will  not  be  forever,  yet  merry  goes  the  tune 
While  we  still  go  a-roving  beneath  the  summer 

moon : 

A  cabin,  in  the  clearing,  of  flickering  firelight 
When  old-time  lanes  we  strolled  in  the  winter 

snows  make  white : 
Where  we  can  nod  together  above  the  logs  and 

croon 
The    songs  we   sang  when   roving   beneath    the 

summer  moon. 

AN  OLD  SONG 

TT'S  Oh,  for  the  hills,  where  the  wind's  some  one 
*   With  a  vagabond  foot  that  follows ! 
And  a  cheer-up  hand  that  he  claps  upon 
Your  arm  with  the  hearty  words,  < « Come  on  ! 
We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  hollows, 
My  heart ! 

We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  hollows  !  " 
32 


It's  Oh,  for  the  songs,  where  the  hope's  some  one  An 

With  a  renegade  foot  that  doubles !  Old 

And  a  kindly  look  that  he  turns  upon  SonS 

Your  face  with  the  friendly  laugh,  '  *  Come  on  ! 

We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  troubles, 

My  heart ! 

We'll  soon  be  out  of  the  troubles  ! " 

A  ROSE  O'  THE  HILLS 

T^HE  hills  look  down  on  wood  and  stream, 

On  orchard-land  and  farm  ; 
And  o'er  the  hills  the  azure-gray 
Of  heaven  bends  the  livelong  day 
With  thoughts  of  calm  and  storm. 

On  wood  and  stream  the  hills  look  down, 
On  farm  and  orchard-land ; 
And  o'er  the  hills  she  came  to  me 
Through  wildrose-brake  and  blackberry, 
The  hill  wind  hand  in  hand. 

The  hills  look  down  on  home  and  field, 
On  wood  and  winding  stream  ; 
And  o'er  the  hills  she  came  along, 
Upon  her  lips  a  woodland  song, 
And  in  her  eyes,  a  dream. 

On  home  and  field  the  hills  look  down, 
On  stream  and  vistaed  wood ; 
And  breast-deep,  with  disordered  hair, 
Fair  in  the  wildrose  tangle  there, 
A  sudden  space  she  stood. 
33 


A  Rose      O  hills,  that  look  on  rock  and  road, 

0'  tbe        On  grove  and  harvest-field, 

Hills        <-£Q  wj!om  God  giveth  rest  and  peace, 

And  slumber,  that  is  kin  to  these, 

And  visions  unrevealed ! 

O  hills,  that  look  on  road  and  rock, 
On  field  and  fruited  grove, 
What  now  is  mine  of  peace  and  rest 
In  you  !  since  entered  at  my  breast 
God's  sweet  unrest  of  love ! 


DIRGE 


\yHAT  shall  her  silence  keep 

Under  the  sun  ? 
Here,  where  the  willows  weep 
And  waters  run ; 
Here,  where  she  lies  asleep, 
And  all  is  done. 

Lights,  when  the  tree-top  swings ; 

Scents  that  are  sown  ; 

Sounds  of  the  wood-bird's  wings  ; 

And  the  bee's  drone  : 

These  be  her  comfortings 

Under  the  stone. 

What  shall  watch  o'er  her  here 

When  day  is  fled  ? 

Here,  when  the  night  is  near 

34 


And  skies  are  red  ;  Dirge 

Here,  where  she  lieth  dear 
And  young  and  dead. 

Shadows,  and  winds  that  spill 
Dew ;  and  the  tune 
Of  the  wild  whippoorwill ; 
And  the  white  moon  ; 
These  be  the  watchers  still 
Over  her  stone. 


REST 


TjNDER  the  brindled  beech, 

Deep  in  the  mottled  shade, 
Where  the  rocks  hang  in  reach 
Flower  and  ferny  blade, 
Let  him  be  laid. 

Here  will  the  brooks,  that  rove 
Under  the  mossy  trees, 
Grave  with  the  music  of 
Underworld  melodies, 
Lap  him  in  peace. 

Here  will  the  winds,  that  blow 
Out  of  the  haunted  west, 
Gold  with  the  dreams  that  glow 
There  on  the  heaven's  breast, 
Lull  him  to  rest. 
35 


Rest          Here  will  the  stars  and  moon, 
Silent  and  far  and  deep, 
Old  with  the  mystic  rune 
Of  the  slow  years  that  creep, 
Charm  him  with  sleep. 

Under  the  ancient  beech, 
Deep  in  the  mossy  shade, 
Where  the  hill  moods  may  reach, 
Where  the  hill  dreams  may  aid, 
Let  him  be  laid. 

CLAIRVOYANCE 

^HE  sunlight  that  makes  of  the  heaven 

A  pathway  for  sylphids  to  throng  ; 
The  wind  that  makes  harps  of  the  forests 
For  spirits  to  smite  into  song, 
Are  the  image  and  voice  of  a  vision 
That  comforts  my  heart  and  makes  strong. 

I  look  in  one's  face,  and  the  shadows 
Are  lifted  :  and,  lo,  I  can  see, 
Through  windows  of  evident  being, 
That  open  on  eternity, 
The  form  of  the  essence  of  Beauty 
God  clothes  with  His  own  mystery. 

I  lean  to  one's  voice,  and  the  wrangle 
Of  living  hath  pause  :  and  I  hear 
Through  doors  of  invisible  spirit, 
That  open  on  light  that  is  clear, 
The  radiant  raiment  of  Music 
In  the  hush  of  the  heavens  sweep  near. 
36 


INDIFFERENCE 

CHE  is  so  dear  the  wildflowers  near 

Each  path  she  passes  by, 
Are  over  fain  to  kiss  again 
Her  feet  and  then  to  die. 

She  is  so  fair  the  wild  birds  there 

That  sing  upon  the  bough, 

Have  learned  the  staff  of  her  sweet  laugh, 

And  sing  no  other  now. 

Alas  !  that  she  should  never  see, 
Should  never  care  to  know, 
The  wildflower's  love,  the  bird's  above, 
And  his,  who  loves  her  so  ! 


PICTURED 

'"THIS  is  the  face  of  her 
I've  dreamed  of  long  ; 
Here  in  my  heart's  despair, 
This  is  the  face  of  her 
Pictured  in  song. 

Look  on  the  lily  lids, 
The  eyes  of  dawn, 
Deep  as  a  Nereid's, 
Swimming  with  dewy  lids 
In  waters  wan. 

37 


Pictured   Look  on  the  brows  of  snow, 
The  locks  brown-bright ; 
Only  young  sleep  can  show 
Such  brows  of  placid  snow, 
Such  locks  of  night. 

The  cheeks,  like  rosy  moons, 
The  lips  of  fire  ; 
Love  thinks  no  sweeter  tunes 
Under  enchanted  moons 
Than  their  desire. 

Loved  lips  and  eyes  and  hair, 
Lo,  this  is  she  ! 
She,  who  sits  smiling  there 
Over  my  heart's  despair, 
Never  for  me  ! 


SERENADE 

IP  HE  pink  rose  drops  its  petals  on 

The  moonlit  lawn,  the  moonlit  lawn ; 
The  moon,  like  some  wide  rose  of  white, 
Drops  down  the  summer  night. 
No  rose  there  is 
As  sweet  as  this  — 
Thy  mouth,  that  greets  me  with  a  kiss. 

The  lattice  of  thy  casement  twines 
With  jasmine  vines,  with  jasmine  vines; 
The  stars,  like  jasmine  blossoms,  lie 
38 


About  the  glimmering  sky.  Serenade 

No  jasmine  tress 

Can  so  caress 

As  thy  white  arms'  soft  loveliness. 

About  thy  door  magnolia  blooms 

Make  sweet  the  glooms,  make  sweet  the  glooms  ; 

A  moon-magnolia  is  the  dusk 

Closed  in  a  dewy  husk. 

However  much, 

No  bloom  gives  such 

Soft  fragrance  as  thy  bosom's  touch. 

The  flowers,  blooming  now,  shall  pass, 

And  strew  the  grass,  and  strew  the  grass ; 

The  night,  like  some  frail  flower,  dawn 

Shall  soon  make  gray  and  wan. 

Still,  still  above, 

The  flower  of 

True  love  shall  live  forever,  love. 


KINSHIP 


T^HERE  is  no  flower  of  wood  or  lea, 

No  April  flower,  as  fair  as  she  : 
O  white  anemone,  who  hast 
The  wind's  wild  grace, 
Know  her  a  cousin  of  thy  race, 
Into  whose  face 
A  presence  like  the  wind's  hath  passed. 

39 


Kinship  II. 

There  is  no  flower  of  wood  or  lea, 

No  May  time  flower,  as  fair  as  she  : 

O  bluebell,  tender  with  the  blue 

Of  limpid  skies, 

Thy  lineage  hath  kindred  ties 

In  her,  whose  eyes 

The  heav'n's  own  qualities  imbue. 


III. 

There  is  no  flower  of  wood  or  lea, 

No  Juneday  flower,  as  fair  as  she  : 

Rose, — odorous  with  beauty  of 

Life's  first  and  best, — 

Behold  thy  sister  here  confessed  ! 

Whose  maiden  breast 

Is  fragrant  with  the  dreams  of  love. 


SHE  IS  SO  MUCH 

CHE  is  so  much  to  me,  to  me, 

And,  oh  !  I  love  her  so, 
I  look  into  my  soul  and  see 
How  comfort  keeps  me  company 
In  hopes  she,  too,  may  know. 
I  love  her,  I  love  her,  I  love  her, 
This  I  know. 

40 


So  dear  she  is  to  me,  so  dear,  She  is  so 

And,  oh !  I  love  her  so, 

I  listen  in  my  heart  and  hear 

The  voice  of  gladness  singing  near 

In  thoughts  she,  too,  may  know. 

I  love  her,  I  love  her,  I  love  her, 

This  I  know. 

So  much  she  is  to  me,  so  much, 
And,  oh  !  I  love  her  so, 
In  heart  and  soul  I  feel  the  touch 
Of  angel  callers,  that  are  such 
Dreams  as  she,  too,  may  know. 
I  love  her,  I  love  her,  I  love  her, 
This  I  know. 


HER  EYES 

T  N  her  dark  eyes  dreams  poetize  ; 

The  soul  sits  lost  in  love : 
There  is  no  thing  in  all  the  skies, 
To  gladden  all  the  world  I  prize, 
Like  the  deep  love  in  her  dark  eyes, 
Or  one  sweet  dream  thereof. 

In  her  dark  eyes,  where  thoughts  arise, 
Her  soul's  soft  moods  I  see : 
Of  hope  and  faith,  that  make  life  wise 
And  charity,  whose  food  is  sighs — 
Not  truer  than  her  own  true  eyes 
Is  truth's  divinity. 


Her  Eyes    In  her  dark  eyes  the  knowledge  lies 
Of  an  immortal  sod, 
Her  soul  once  trod  in  angel-guise, 
Nor  can  forget  its  heavenly  ties, 
Since,  there  in  Heaven,  upon  her  eyes 
Once  gazed  the  eyes  of  God. 


MESSENGERS 

T^HE  wind,  that  gives  the  rose  a  kiss 

With  murmured  music  of  the  south, 
Hath  kissed  a  sweeter  thing  than  this, — 
The  wind,  that  gives  the  rose  a  kiss — 
The  perfume  of  her  mouth. 

The  brook,  that  mirrors  skies  and  trees, 
And  echoes  in  a  grottoed  place, 
Hath  held  a  fairer  thing  than  these, — 
The  brook,  that  mirrors  skies  and  trees, — 
The  image  of  her  face. 

O  happy  wind  !  O  happy  brook  ! 
So  dear  before,  so  free  of  cares  ! 
How  dearer  since  her  kiss  and  look, — 
O  happy  wind  !  O  happy  brook  ! — 
Have  blessed  you  unawares  ! 


AT  TWENTY-ONE 

HP  HE  rosy  hills  of  her  high  breasts, 

Whereon,  like  misty  morning,  rests 
The  breathing  lace ;  her  auburn  hair, 
Wherein,  a  star  point  sparkling  there, 
One  jewel  burns  ;  her  eyes,  that  keep 
Recorded  dreams  of  song  and  sleep ; 
Her  mouth,  with  whose  comparison 
The  richest  rose  were  poor  and  wan ; 
Her  throat,  her  form — what  masterpiece 
Of  man  can  picture  half  of  these ! 
She  comes !  a  classic  from  the  hand 
Of  God !  wherethrough  I  understand 
What  Nature  means  and  Art  and  Love, 
And  all  the  lovely  Myths  thereof. 


43 


BABY  MARY 

TO  LITTLE  M.   E.   C.   G. 

FjEEP  in  baby  Mary's  eyes, 

Baby  Mary's  sweet  blue  eyes, 
Dwell  the  golden  memories 
Of  the  music  once  her  ears 
Heard  in  far-off  Paradise  ; 
So  she  has  no  time  for  tears, — 
Baby  Mary, — 
Listening  to  the  songs  she  hears. 

Soft  in  baby  Mary's  face, 

Baby  Mary's  lovely  face, 

If  you  watch,  you,  too,  may  trace 

Dreams  her  spirit-self  hath  seen 

In  some  far-off  Eden-place, 

Whence  her  soul  she  can  not  wean, 

Baby  Mary, — 

Dreaming  in  a  world  between. 


A   MOTIVE  IN  GOLD  AND  GRAY 

I. 

rpO-N IGHT  he  sees  their  star  burn,  dewy-bright, 

Deep  in  the  pansy,  eve  hath  made  for  it, 
Low  in  the  west ;  a  placid  purple  lit 
At  its  far  edge  with  warm  auroral  light : 
Love's  planet  hangs  above  a  cedared  height ; 
And  there  in  shadow,  like  gold  music  writ 
Of  dusk's  dark  fingers,  scale-like  fire-flies  flit 
Now  up,  now  down  the  balmy  bars  of  night. 
How  different  from  that  eve  a  year  ago ! 
Which  was  a  stormy  flower  in  the  hair 
Of  dolorous  day,  whose  sombre  eyes  looked, 

blurred, 

Into  night's  sibyl  face,  and  saw  the  woe 
Of  parting  near,  and  imaged  a  despair, 
As  now  a  hope  caught  from  a  homing  word. 

II. 

She  came  unto  him — as  the  springtime  does 
Unto  the  land  where  all  lies  dead  and  cold, 
Until  her  rosary  of  days  is  told 
And  beauty,  prayer-like,  blossoms  where  death 

was 

Nature  divined  her  coming — yea,  the  dusk 
Seemed  thinking  of  that  happiness  :  behold, 
No  cloud  it  had  to  blot  its  marigold 
Moon,  great  and  golden,  o'er  the  slopes  of  musk  ; 
Whereon  earth's  voice   made  music ;    leaf    and 

stream 

Lilting  the  same  low  lullaby  again, 
45 


A  Motive  To  coax  the  wind,  who  romped  among  the  hills 
in  Gold     All  day,  a  tired  child,  to  sleep  and  dream  : 
and  Gray  When  through  the  moonlight  of  the  locust-lane 
She  came,  as  spring  comes -through  her  daffodils. 

III. 

White  as  a  lily  molded  of  Earth's  milk 
That  eve  the  moon  swam  in  a  hyacinth  sky ; 
Soft  in  the  gleaming  glens  the  wind  went  by, 
Faint  as  a  phantom  clothed  in  unseen  silk : 
Bright  as  a  naiad's  leap,  from  shine  to  shade, 
The  runnel  twinkled  through  the  shaken  brier ; 
Above  the  hills  one  long  cloud,  pulsed  with  fire, 
Flashed  like  a  great,  enchantment-welded  blade. 
And  when  the  western  sky  seemed  some  weird  land, 
And  night  a  witching  spell  at  whose  command 
One  sloping  star  fell  green  from  heav'n ;  and  deep 
The  warm  rose  opened  for  the  moth  to  sleep  ; 
Then  she,  consenting,  laid  her  hands  in  his, 
And  lifted  up  her  lips  for  their  first  kiss. 

IV. 

There  where  they  part,  the  porch's  step  is  strewn 
With  wind-tossed  petals  of  the  purple  vine  ; 
Athwart  the  porch  the  shadow  of  a  pine 
Cleaves  the  white  moonlight ;  and,  like  some  calm 

rune 

Heaven  says  to  Earth,  shines  the  majestic  moon ; 
And  now  a  meteor  draws  a  lilac  line 
Across  the  welkin,  as  if  God  would  sign 
The  perfect  poem  of  this  night  of  June. 
46 


The  wood-wind  stirs  the  flowering  chestnut-tree,  A  Motive 
Whose  curving  blossoms   strew  the  glimmering  m  Gold 

grass 

Like  crescents  that  wind-wrinkled  waters  glass  ; 
And,  like  a  moonstone  in  a  frill  of  flame, 
The  dew-drop  trembles  on  the  peony, 
As  in  a  lover's  heart  his  sweetheart's  name. 

V. 

In  after  years  shall  she  stand  here  again, 
In  heart  regretful  ?  and  with  lonely  sighs 
Think  on  that  night  of  love,  and  realize 
Whose  was   the  fault  whence  grew  the  parting 

pain  ? 

And,  in  her  soul,  persuading  still  in  vain, 
Shall  doubt  take  shape,  and  all  its  old  surmise 
Bid  darker  phantoms  of  remorse  arise 
Trailing  the  raiment  of  a  dead  disdain  ? 
Masks,  unto  whom  shall  her  avowal  yearn, 
With  looks  clairvoyant  seeing  how  each  is 
A  different  form,  with  eyes  and  lips  that  burn 
Into  her  heart  with  love's  last  look  and  kiss  ? — 
And,  ere  they  pass,  shall  she  behold  them  turn 
To  her  a  face  which  evermore  is  his  ? 

VI. 

In  after  years  shall  he  remember  how 
Dawn  had  no  breeze  soft  as  her  murmured  name  ? 
And  day  no  sunlight  that  availed  the  same 
As  her  bright  smile  to  cheer  the  world  below  ? 
Nor  had  the  conscious  twilight's  golds  and  grays 
Her  soul's  allurement,  that  was  free  of  blame, — 

47 


A  Motive  Nor  dusk's  gold  canvas,  where  one  star's  white 

in  Gold         flame 

and  Gray  §hone,   more  bewitchment  than  her  own   sweet 

ways. — 

Then  as  the  night  with  moonlight  and  perfume, 
And  dew  and  darkness,  qualifies  the  whole 
Dim  world  with    glamour,   shall    the   past    with 

dreams — 

That  were  the  love-theme  of  their  lives — illume 
The    present    with    remembered    hours,    whose 

gleams, 
Unknown  to  him,  shall  face  them  soul  to  soul  ? 

VII. 

No  !  not  for  her  and  him  that  part ; — the  Might- 
Have- Been's  sad  consolation; — where  had  bent, 
Haply,  in  prayer  and  patience  penitent, 
Both,  though  apart,  before  no  blown-out  light. 
The  otherwise  of  fate  for  them,  when  white 
The  lilacs  bloom  again,  and,  innocent, 
Spring  comes  with  beauty  for  her  testament, 
Singing  the  praises  of  the  day  and  night. 
When  orchards  blossom  and  the  distant  hill 
Is  vague  with  haw-trees  as  a  ridge  with  mist, 
The  moon  shall  see  him  where  a  watch  he  keeps 
By  her  young  form  that  lieth  white  and  still, 
With  lidded  eyes  and  passive  wrist  on  wrist, 
While  by  her  side  he  bows  himself  and  weeps. 

VIII. 

And,  oh,  what  pain  to  see  the  blooms  appear 
Of  haw  and  dogwood  in  the  spring  again ; 

48 


The  primrose  leaning  with  the  dragging  rain,          A  Motive 

And  hill-locked  orchards  swarming  far  and  near.  *'«  Gold 

To  see  the  old  fields,  that  her  steps  made  dear, 

Grow  green  with  deepening  plenty  of  the  grain, 

Yet  feel  how  this  excess  of  life  is  vain, — 

How  vain  to  him ! — since  she  no  more  is  here. 

What  though  the  woodland  burgeon,  water  flow, 

Like  a  rejoicing  harp,  beneath  the  boughs  ! 

The  cat-bird  and  the  hermit-thrush  arouse 

Day  with  the  impulsive  music  of  their  love  ! 

Beneath  the  graveyard  sod  she  will  not  know, 

Nor  what  his  heart  is  all  too  conscious  of ! 

IX. 

How  blessed  is  he  who,  gazing  in  the  tomb, 
Can  yet  behold,  beneath  th'  investing  mask 
Of  mockery, — whose  horror  seems  to  ask 
Sphinx-riddles  of  the  soul  within  the  gloom, — 
Upon  dead  lips  no  dust  of  Love's  dead  bloom ; 
And  in   dead  hands  no   shards   of   Faith's  rent 

flask; 

But  Hope,  who  still  stands  at  her  starry  task, 
Weaving  the  web  of  comfort  on  her  loom ! 
Thrice  blessed !  who,  'though  he  hear  the  tomb 

proclaim, 

How  all  is  Death's  and  Life  Death's  other  name ; 
Can  yet  reply  :  "O  Grave,  these  things  are  yours  ! 
But  that  is  left  which  life  indeed  assures — 
Love,  through  whose  touch  I  shall  arise  the  same  ! 
Love,  of  whose  self  was  wrought  the  universe ! " 


49 


A  REED  SHAKEN  WITH  THE  WIND 
I. 

^^TOT  for  you  and  me  the  path 

Winding  through  the  shadowless 
Fields  of  morning's  dewiness  ! 
Where  the  brook,  that  hurries,  hath 
Laughter  lighter  than  a  boy's ; 
Where  recurrent  odors  poise, 
Romp-like,  with  irreverent  tresses, 
In  the  sun ;  and  birds  and  boughs 
Build  a  music-haunted  house 
For  the  winds  to  hang  their  dresses, 
Whisper-silken,  rustling  in. 
Ours  a  path  that  led  unto 
Twilight  regions  gray  with  dew  ; 
Where  moon-vapors  gathered  thin 
Over  acres  sisterless 
Of  all  healthy  beauty ;  where 
Fungus  growths  made  sad  the  air 
With  a  phantom-like  caress  : 
Under  darkness  and  strange  stars, 
To  the  sorrow -silenced  bars 
Of  a  dubious  forestland, 
Where  the  wood-scents  seemed  to  stand, 
And  the  sounds,  on  either  hand, 
Clad  like  sleep's  own  servitors 
In  the  shadowy  livery 
Of  the  ancient  house  of  dreams  ; 
That  before  us, —  fitfully, 
With  white  intermittent  gleams 
Of  its  pale-lamped  windows, —  shone; 
Echoing  with  the  dim  unknown. 
50 


II.  A  Reed 

To  say  to  hope,  —  Take  all  from  me,  wtt^  ^e 

And  grant  me  naught :  Wind 

The  rose,  the  song,  the  melody, 

The  word,  the  thought : 

Then  all  my  life  bid  me  be  slave, — 

Is  all  I  crave. 

To  say  to  time, —  Be  true  to  me, 

Nor  grant  me  less 

The  dream,  the  sigh,  the  memory, 

The  heart's  distress ; 

Then  unto  death  set  me  a  task, 

Is  all  I  ask. 

III. 

I  came  to  you  when  eve  was  young. 
And,  where  the  park  went  downward  to 
The  river,  and,  among  the  dew, 
One  vesper  moment  lit  and  sung 
A  bird,  your  eyes  said  something  dear. 
How  sweeet  it  was  to  walk  with  you  ! 
How,  with  our  souls,  we  seemed  to  hear 
The  darkness  coming  with  its  stars  ! 
How  calm  the  moon  sloped  up  her  sphere 
Of  fire-filled  pearl  through  passive  bars 
Of  clouds  that  berged  the  tender  east ! 
While  all  the  dark  inanimate 
Of  nature  woke ;  initiate 
With  th'  moon's  arrival,  something  ceased 
In  nature's  soul ;  she  stood  again 
Another  self,  that  seemed  t'  have  been 


A  Reed    Dormant,  suppressed  and  so  unseen 
Shaken     All  day  ;  a  life,  unknown  and  strange 
wMtbe   And  dream-suggestive,  that  had  lain, — 
Masked  on  with  light,— within  the  range 
Of  thought,  but  unrevealed  till  now. 
It  was  the  hour  of  love.     And  you, 
With  downward  eyes  and  pensive  brow, 
Among  the  moonlight  and  the  dew, — 
Although  no  word  of  love  was  spoken, — 
Heard  the  sweet  night's  confession  broken 
Of  something  here  that  spoke  in  me ; 
A  love,  depth  made  inaudible, 
Save  to  your  soul,  that  answered  well, 
With  eyes  replying  silently. 


IV. 

Fair  you  are  as  a  rose  is  fair, 

There  where  the  shadows  dew  it ; 

And  the  deeps  of  your  brown,  brown  hair, 

Sweet  as  the  cloud  that  lingers  there 

With  the  sunset's  auburn  through  it. 

Eyes  of  azure  and  throat  of  snow, 

Tell  me  what  my  heart  would  know  ! 

Every  dream  I  dream  of  you 
Has  a  love-thought  in  it, 
And  a  hope,  a  kiss  or  two, 
Something  dear  and  something  true, 
Telling  me  each  minute, 
With  three  words  it  whispers  clear, 
What  my  heart  from  you  would  hear. 
52 


V.  A  Reed 

Shaken 

Summer  came  ;  the  days  grew  kind  witb  the 

With  increasing  favors  ;   deep 
Were  the  nights  with  rest  and  sleep  : 
Fair,  with  poppies  intertwined 
On  their  blonde  locks,  dreamy  hours, 
Sunny-hearted  as  the  rose, 
Went  among  the  banded  flowers, 
Teaching  them,  how  no  one  knows, 
Fresher  color  and  perfume. — 
In  the  window  of  your  room 
Bloomed  a  rich  azalea.      Pink, 
As  an  egret's  rosy  plumes, 
Shone  its  tender-tufted  blooms. 
From  your  care  and  love,  I  think, 
Love's  rose-color  it  did  drink, 
Growing  rosier  day  by  day 
Of  your  'tending  hand's  caress ; 
And  your  own  dear  naturalness 
Had  imbued  it  in  some  way. 
Once  you  gave  a  blossom  of  it, 
Smiling,  to  me  when  I  left : 
Need  I  tell  you  how  I  love  it 
Faded  though  it  is  now  ! — Reft 
Of  its  fragrance  and  its  color, 
Yet  'tis  dearer  now  than  then, 
As  past  happiness  is  when 
We  regret.     And  dimmer,  duller 
Though  its  beauty  be,  when  I 
Look  upon  it,  I  recall 
Every  part  of  that  old  wall ; 
And  the  dingy  window  high, 

53 


A  Reed    Where  you  sat  and  read  ;  and  all 
Shaken     The  fond  love  that  made  your  face 

A  soft  sunbeam  in  that  place  : 

And  the  plant,  that  grew  this  bloom 

Withered  here,  itself  long  dead, 

Makes  a  halo  overhead 

There  again  —  and  through  my  room, 

Like  faint  whispers  of  perfume, 

Steal  the  words  of  love  then  said. 

VI. 

All  of  my  love  I  send  to  you, 

I  send  to  you, 

On  thoughts,  like  paths,  that  wend  to  you, 

Here  in  my  heart's  glad  garden, 

Wherein,  its  lovely  warden, 

Your  face,  a  lily  seeming, 

Is  dreaming. 

All  of  my  life  I  bring  to  you, 

I  bring  to  you, 

In  deeds,  like  birds,  that  sing  to  you, 

Here,  in  my  soul's  sweet  valley, 

Wherethrough,  most  musically, 

Your  love,  a  fountain,  glistens, 

And  listens. 

My  love,  my  life,  how  blessed  in  you ! 

How  blessed  in  you  ! 

Whose  thoughts,  whose  deeds  find  rest  in  you, 

Here,  on  my  self's  dark  ocean, 

Whereo'er,  in  heavenly  motion, 

Your  soul,  a  star,  abideth, 

And  guideth. 


A  Reed 
VII.  Shaken 

with  tbe 

Where  the  old  Kentucky  wound  Wind 

Through  the  land,  —  its  stream  between 
Hills  of  primitive  forest  green, — 
Like  a  goodly  belt  around 
Giant  breasts  of  grandeur  ;  with 
Many  an  unknown  Indian  myth, 
On  the  boat  we  steamed.     The  land 
Like  an  hospitable  hand 
Welcomed  us.     Alone  we  sat 
On  the  under-deck,  and  saw 
Farm-house  and  plantation  draw 
Near  and  vanish.     'Neath  your  hat, 
Your  young  eyes  laughed  ;  and  your  hair, 
Blown  about  them  by  the  air 
Of  our  passage,  clung  and  curled. 
Music,  and  the  summer  moon ; 
And  the  hills'  great  shadows  hewn 
Out  of  silence  ;  and  the  tune 
Of  the  whistle,  when  we  whirled 
Round  a  moonlit  bend  in  sight  of 
Some  lone  landing  heaped  with  hay 
Or  tobacco  ;  where  the  light  of 
One  dim  solitary  lamp 
Signaled  through  the  evening's  damp  : 
Then  a  bell ;  and,  dusky  gray, 
Shuffling  figures  on  the  shore 
With  the  cable  ;  rugged  forms 
On  the  gang-plank  ;  backs  and  arms 
With  their  cargo  bending  o'er ; 
And  the  burly  mate  before. 

55 


A  Reed    Then  an  iron  bell,  and  puff 

Shaken     of  escaping  steam  ;  and  out 

Where  the  stream  is  wheel-whipped  rough : 

Music,  and  a  parting  shout 

From  the  shore  ;   the  pilot's  bell 

Beating  on  the  deck  below  ; 

Then  the  steady,  quivering,  slow 

Smooth  advance  again.      Until 

Twinkling  lights  beyond  us  tell 

There's  a  lock  or  little  town, 

Clasped  between  a  hill  and  hill, 

Where  the  blue-grass  fields  slope  down.  — 

So  we  went.     That  summer-time 

Lingers  with  me  like  a  rhyme 

Learned  for  dreamy  beauty  of 

Its  old-fashioned  faith  and  love, 

In  some  musing  moment ;  sith 

Heart-associated  with 

Joy  that  moment's  quiet  bore, 

Thought  repeated  evermore. 


VIII. 

Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon  : 
Music,  at  whose  fountain's  brink 
Still  he  stoops  his  face  to  drink  ; 
Seeing,  as  the  wave  is  drawn, 
His  own  image  rise  and  sink. 
Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon. 

56 


Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon  : 
Odor,  whose  red  roses  wreathe 
His  bright  brow  that  shines  beneath : 
Hearing,  as  each  bud  is  blown, 
His  own  spirit  breathe  and  breathe. 
Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon. 

Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon  : 
Color,  to  whose  rainbow  he 
Lifts  his  dark  eyes  burningly ; 
Feeling,  as  the  wild  hues  dawn, 
His  own  immortality. 
Three  sweet  things  love  lives  upon. 


A  Reed 
Shaken 
witb  the 
Wind 


IX. 

Memories  of  other  days, 
With  the  whilom  happiness, 
Rise  before  my  musing  gaze 
In  the  twilight  .   .   .   And  your  dress 
Seems  beside  me,  like  a  haze 
Shimmering  white  ;  as  when  we  went 
'Neath  the  star-strewn  firmament, 
Love -led,  with  impatient  feet 
Down  the  night  that,  summer-sweet, 
Sparkled  o'er  the  lamp-lit  street. 
Every  look  love  gave  us  then 
Comes  before  my  eyes  again, 
Making  music  for  my  heart 
On  that  path,  that  grew  for  us 
Roses,  red  and  amorous, 
On  that  path,  from  which  oft  start, 

57 


A  Reed  Out  of  recollected  places, 

Sbaken    With  remembered  forms  and  faces, 

Dreams,  love's  ardent  hands  have  woven 
In  my  life's  dark  tapestry, 
Beckoning,  soft  and  shadowy, 
To  the  soul.     And  o'er  the  cloven 
Gulf  of  time,  I  seem  to  hear 
Words,  once  whispered  in  the  ear, 
Calling — as  might  friends  long  dead, 
With  familiar  voices,  deep, 
Speak  to  those  who  lie  asleep, 
Comforting — So  I  was  led 
Backward  to  forgotten  things, 
Contiguities  that  spread 
Sudden  unremembered  wings ; 
And  across  my  mind's  still  blue 
From  the  nest  they  fledged  in,  flew 
Dazzling  shapes  affection  knew. 

X. 

Ah  !  over  full  my  heart  is 
Of  sadness  and  of  pain ; 
As  a  rose-flower  in  the  garden 
The  dull  dusk  fills  with  rain ; 
As  a  blown  red  rose  that  shivers 
And  bends  to  the  wind  and  rain. 

So  give  me  thy  hands  and  speak  me 
As  once  in  the  days  of  yore, 
When  love  spoke  sweetly  to  us, 
The  love  that  speaks  no  more  ; 
The  sound  of  thy  voice  may  help  him 
To  speak  in  our  hearts  once  more. 
58 


Ah  !  over  grieved  my  soul  is,  A  Reed 

And  tired  and  sick  for  sleep ,  Shaken 

As  a  poppy-bloom  that  withers, 
Forgotten,  where  reapers  reap ; 
As  a  harvested  poppy-flower 
That  dies  where  reapers  reap. 

So  bend  to  my  face  and  kiss  me 

As  once  in  the  days  of  yore, 

When  the  touch  of  thy  lips  was  magic 

That  restored  to  life  once  more  ; 

The  thought  of  thy  kiss,  which  awakens 

To  life  that  love  once  more. 


Sitting  often  I  have,  oh ! 
Often  have  desired  you  so — 
Yearned  to  kiss  you  as  I  did 
When  your  love  to  me  you  gave, 
In  the  moonlight,  by  the  wave, 
And  a  long  impetuous  kiss 
Pressed  upon  your  mouth  that  chid, 
And  upon  each  dewy  lid — 
That,  all  passion-shaken,  I 
With  love  language  will  address 
Each  dear  thing  I  know  you  by, 
Picture,  needle-work  or  frame ; 
Each  suggestive  in  the  same 
Perfume  of  past  happiness  : 
Till,  meseems,  the  ways  we  knew 
Now  again  I  tread  with  you 

59 


A  Reed  From  the  oldtime  tryst :  and  there 
Shaken    Feel  the  pressure  of  your  hair 

C°o1  and  6aSy  °D  my  cheek' 
And  your  breath's  aroma  :  bare 

Hand  upon  my  arm,  as  weak 

As  a  lily  on  a  stream : 

And  your  eyes,  that  gaze  at  me 

With  the  sometime  witchery, 

To  my  inmost  spirit  speak. 

And  remembered  ecstacy 

Sweeps  my  soul  again  ...   I  seem 

Dreaming,  yet  I  do  not  dream. 


XII. 

When  day  dies,  lone,  forsaken, 
And  joy  is  kissed  asleep  ; 
When  doubt's  gray  eyes  awaken, 
And  love,  with  music  taken 
From  hearts  with  sighings  shaken, 
Sits  in  the  dusk  to  weep  : 

With  ghostly  lifted  finger 
What  memory  then  shall  rise  ? — 
Of  dark  regret  the  bringer — 
To  tell  the  sorrowing  singer 
Of  days  whose  echoes  linger, 
Till  dawn  unstars  the  skies. 

60 


When  night  is  gone  and,  beaming,  A  Reed 

Faith  journeys  forth  to  toil ;  Sbaken 

When  hope's  blue  eyes  wake  gleaming,  * 

And  life  is  done  with  dreaming 
The  dreams  that  seem  but  seeming, 
Within  the  world's  turmoil : 

Can  we  forget  the  presence 

Of  death  who  walks  unseen  ? 

Whose  scythe  casts  shadowy  crescents 

Around  life's  glittering  essence, 

As  lessens,  slowly  lessens, 

The  space  that  lies  between. 


XIII. 

Bland  was  that  October  day, 
Calm  and  balmy  as  the  spring, 
When  we  went  a  forest-way, 
'Neath  paternal  beeches  gray, 
To  a  valleyed  opening  : 
Where  the  purple  aster  flowered, 
And,  like  torches  shadow-held, 
Red  the  fiery  sumach  towered ; 
And,  where  gum-trees  sentineled 
Vistas,  robed  in  gold  and  garnet, 
Ripe  the  thorny  chestnut  shelled 
Its  brown  plumpness.     Bee  and  hornet 
Droned  around  us ;  quick  the  cricket, 
Tireless  in  the  wood-rose  thicket, 
61 


A  Reed  Tremoloed ;  and,  to  the  wind 
Shaken    All  its  moon-spun  silver  casting, 

Swung  the  milk-weed  pod  unthinned  ; 

And,  its  clean  flame  on  the  sod 

By  the  fading  golden-rod, 

Burned  the  white  life-everlasting. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  time, 

Nor  the  place,  nor  way  we  went, 

That  made  all  our  moods  to  rhyme, 

Nor  the  season's  sentiment, 

As  it  was  the  innocent 

Carefree  childhood  of  our  hearts, 

Reading  each  expression  of 

Death  and  care  as  life  and  love : 

That  impression  joy  imparts 

Unto  others  and  retorts 

On  itself,  which  then  made  glad 

All  the  sorrow  of  decay, 

As  the  memory  of  that  day 

Makes  this  day  of  spring,  now,  sad. 


XIV. 

The  balsam-breathed  petunias 
Hang  riven  of  the  rain  ; 
And  where  the  tiger-lily  was 
Now  droops  a  tawny  stain  ; 
While  in  the  twilight's  purple  pause 
Earth  dreams  of  Heaven  again. 


62 


When  one  shall  sit  and  sigh,  A  Reed 

And  one  lie  all  alone  Shaken 

Beneath  the  unseen  sky — 
Whose  love  shall  then  deny  ? 
Whose  love  atone  ? 

With  ragged  petals  round  its  pod 
The  rain-wrecked  poppy  dies  ; 
And  where  the  hectic  rose  did  nod 
A  crumbled  crimson  lies  ; 
While  distant  as  the  dreams  of  God 
The  stars  slip  in  the  skies. 

When  one  shall  lie  asleep, 
And  one  be  dead  and  gone — 
Within  the  unknown  deep, 
Shall  we  the  trysts  then  keep 
That  now  are  done  ? 


XV. 

Holding  both  your  hands  in  mine, 

Often  have  we  sat  together, 

While,  outside,  the  boisterous  weather 

Hung  the  wild  wind  on  the  pine 

Like  a  black  marauder,  and 

With  a  sudden  warning  hand 

At  the  casement  rapped.     The  night 

Read  no  sentiment  of  light, 

Starbeam-syllabled,  within 

Her  romance  of  death  and  sin, 

63 


A  Reed  Shadow-chaptered  tragicly.  — 
Shaken  Looking  in  your  eyes,  ah  me  ! 
wMtbe  Though  i  heard)  i  did  not  heed 

What  the  night  read  unto  us, 
Threatening  and  ominous  : 
For  love  helped  my  heart  to  read 
Forward  through  unopened  pages 
To  a  coming  day,  that  held 
More  for  us  than  all  the  ages 
Past,  that  it  epitomized 
In  its  sentence  ;  where  we  spelled 
What  our  present  realized 
Only  —  all  the  love  that  was 
Past  and  yet  to  be  for  us. 


XVI. 

'Though  in  the  garden,  gray  with  dew, 

All  life  lies  withering, 

And  there  's  no  more  to  say  or  do, 

No  more  to  sigh  or  sing, 

Yet  go  we  back  the  ways  we  knew, 

When  buds  were  opening. 

Perhaps  we  shall  not  search  in  vain 
Within  its  wreck  and  gloom ; 
'Mid  roses  ruined  of  the  rain 
There  still  may  live  one  bloom  ; 
One  flower,  whose  heart  may  still  retain 
The  long-lost  soul-perfume. 
64 


And  then,  perhaps,  will  come  to  us  A  Reed 

The  dreams  we  dreamed  before  ;  Shaken 

And  song,  who  spoke  so  beauteous, 
Will  speak  to  us  once  more ; 
And  love,  with  eyes  all  amorous, 
Will  ope  again  his  door. 

So  'though  the  garden  's  gray  with  dew, 

And  flowers  are  withering, 

And  there  's  no  more  to  say  or  do, 

No  more  to  sigh  or  sing, 

Yet  go  we  back  the  ways  we  knew 

When  buds  were  opening. 


XVII. 

Looking  on  the  desolate  street, 
Where  the  March  snow  drifts  and  drives, 
Trodden  black  of  hurrying  feet, 
Where  the  athlete  storm-wind  strives 
With  each  tree  and  dangling  light,  — 
Centers,  sphered  with  glittering  white,  — 
Hissing  in  the  dancing  snow  .   .   . 
Backward  in  my  soul  I  go 
To  that  tempest-haunted  night 
Of  two  autumns  past,  when  we, 
Hastening  homeward,  were  o'ertaken 
Of  the  storm  ;  and  'neath  a  tree, 
With  its  wild  leaves  whisper- shaken, 
Sheltered  us  in  that  forsaken, 
Sad  and  ancient  cemetery,  — 
Where  folk  came  no  more  to  bury.  — 

65 


A  Reed  Haggard  grave-stones,  mossed  and  crumbled, 
Shaken    Tottered  'round  us,  or  o'ertumbled 

In  their  sunken  graves ;  and  some, 

Urned  and  obelisked  above 

Iron-fenced  in  tombs,  stood  dumb 

Records  of  forgotten  love. 

And  again  I  see  the  west 

Yawning  inward  to  its  core 

Of  electric-spasmed  ore, 

Swiftly,  without  pause  or  rest. 

And  a  great  wind  sweeps  the  dust 

Up  abandoned  sidewalks  ;  and, 

In  the  rotting  trees,  the  gust 

Shouts  again  —  a  voice  that  would 

Make  its  gaunt  self  understood 

Moaning  over  death's  lean  land. 

And  we  sat  there,  hand  in  hand ; 

On  the  granite  ;  where  we  read, 

By  the  leaping  skies  o'erhead, 

Something  of  one  young  and  dead. 

Yet  the  words  begot  no  fear 

In  our  souls  :  you  leaned  your  cheek 

Smiling  on  mine  :  very  near 

Were  our  lips :  we  did  not  speak. 


XVIII. 

And  suddenly  alone  I  stood 
With  scared  eyes  gazing  through  the  wood. 
For  some  still  sign  of  ill  or  good, 
To  lead  me  from  the  solitude. 
66 


The  day  was  at  its  twilighting ;  A  Reed 

One  cloud  o'erhead  spread  a  vast  wing  Shaken 

Of  rosy  thunder  ;  vanishing  •*  f* 

. ,         J,,      ,      ,  ...  ,          ,.      .  Wind 

Above  the  tar  hills  mystic  ring. 

Some  stars  shone  timidly  o'erhead  ; 
And  toward  the  west's  cadaverous  red — 
Like  some  wild  dream  that  haunts  the  dead 
In  limbo  —  the  lean  moon  was  led. 

Upon  the  sad,  debatable 
Vague  lands  of  twilight  slowly  fell 
A  silence  that  I  knew  too  well, 
A  sorrow  that  I  can  not  tell. 

What  way  to  take,  what  path  to  go, 
Whether  into  the  east's  gray  glow, 
Or  where  the  west  burnt  red  and  low  — 
What  road  to  choose,  I  did  not  know. 

So,  hesitating,  there  I  stood 
Lost  in  my  soul's  uncertain  wood : 
One  sign  I  craved  of  ill  or  good, 
To  lead  me  from  its  solitude. 


XIX. 

It  was  autumn  :  and  a  night, 
Full  of  whispers  and  of  mist, 
With  a  gray  moon,  wanly  whist, 
Hanging  like  a  phantom  light 
O'er  the  hills.     We  stood  among 
Windy  fields  of  weed  and  flower, 
67 


A  Reed  Where  the  withered  seed  pod  hung, 
Sbaken    And  the  chill  leaf -crickets  sung. 
Melancholy  was  the  hour 
With  the  mystery  and  loneness 
Of  the  year,  that  seemed  to  look 
On  its  own  departed  face  ; 
As  our  love  then,  in  its  oneness, 
All  its  dead  past  did  retrace, 
And  from  that  sad  moment  took 
Presage  of  approaching  parting.  — 
Sorrowful  the  hour  and  dark  : 
Low  among  the  trees,  now  starting, 
Now  concealed,  a  star's  pale  spark — 
Like  a  fen-fire —  winked  and  lured 
On  to  shuddering  shadows ;  where 
All  was  doubtful,  unassured, 
Immaterial ;  and  the  bare 
Facts  of  unideal  day 
Changed  to  substance  such  as  dreams. 
And  meseemed  then,  far  away — 
Farther  than  remotest  gleams 
Of  the  stars  —  lost,  separated, 
And  estranged,  and  out  of  reach, 
Grew  our  lives  away  from  each, 
Loving  lives,  that  long  had  waited. 


XX. 

There  is  no  gladness  in  the  day 
Now  you're  away ; 
Dull  is  the  morn,  the  noon  is  dull, 
Once  beautiful ; 

68 


And  when  the  evening  fills  the  skies  A  Reed 

With  dusky  dyes,  Shaken 

With  tired  eyes  and  tired  heart 

t      -j       i  T      •    i 

I  sit  alone,  I  sigh  apart, 
And  wish  for  you. 

Ah  !  darker  now  the  night  comes  on 

Since  you  are  gone  ; 

Sad  are  the  stars,  the  moon  is  sad, 

Once  wholly  glad  ; 

And  when  the  stars  and  moon  are  set, 

And  earth  lies  wet, 

With  heart's  regret  and  soul's  hard  ache, 

I  dream  alone,  I  lie  awake, 

And  wish  for  you. 

These  who  once  spake  me,  speak  no  more, 

Now  all  is  o'er ; 

Day  hath  forgot  the  language  of 

Its  hopes  of  love  ; 

Night,  whose  sweet  lips  were  burdensome 

With  dreams,  is  dumb  ; 

Far  different  from  what  used  to  be, 

With  silence  and  despondency 

They  speak  to  me. 

XXI. 

So  it  ends  —  the  path  that  crept 
Through  a  land  all  si  umber- kissed  ; 
Where  the  sickly  moonlight  slept 
Like  a  pale  antagonist. 
Now  the  star,  that  led  us  onward,  — 
Reassuring  with  its  light,  — 
69 


A  Rgtd  Fails  and  falters  ;  dipping  downward 
Sbaken    Leaves  us  wandering  in  night, 

With  old  doubts  we  once  disdained.   . 
So  it  ends.     The  woods  attained — 
Where  our  heart's  desire  builded 
A  fair  temple,  fire-gilded, 
With  hope's  marble  shrine  within, 
Where  the  lineaments  of  our  love 
Shone,  with  lilies  clad  and  crowned, 
'Neath  white  columns  reared  above 
Sorrow  and  her  sister  sin, 
Columns,  rose  and  ribbon-wound,  — 
In  the  forest  we  have  found 
But  a  ruin  !  All  around 
Lie  the  shattered  capitals, 
And  vast  fragments  of  the  walls  .   .   . 
Like  a  climbing  cloud,  —  that  plies, 
Wind-wrecked,  o'er  the  moon  that  lies 
'Neath  its  blackness,  —  taking  on 
Gradual  certainties  of  wan, 
Soft  assaults  of  easy  white, 
Pale-approaching ;  till  the  skies' 
Emptiness  and  hungry  night 
Claim  its  bulk  again,  while  she 
Rides  in  lonely  purity  : 
So  we  found  our  temple,  broken  ; 
And  a  musing  moment's  space 
Love,  whose  latest  word  was  spoken, 
Seemed  to  meet  us  face  to  face, 
Making  bright  that  ruined  place 
With  a  strange  effulgence ;  then 
Passed,  and  left  all  black  again. 

70 


A  FLOWER  OF  THE  FIELDS. 

gEE-BITTEN  in  the  orchard  hung 

The  peach  ;  or,  fallen  in  the  weeds, 
Lay  rotting :  where  still  sucked  and  sung 
The  gray  bee,  boring  to  its  seed's 
Pink  pulp  and  honey  blackly  stung. 

The  orchard  path,  which  led  around 
The  garden,  —  with  its  heat  one  twinge 
Of  dinning  locusts,  —  picket-bound, 
And  ragged,  brought  me  where  one  hinge 
Held  up  the  gate  that  scraped  the  ground. 

All  seemed  the  same :  the  martin-box  — 
Sun-warped  with  pigmy  balconies  — 
Still  stood  with  all  its  twittering  flocks, 
Perched  on  its  pole  above  the  peas 
And  silvery-seeded  onion-stocks. 

The  clove-pink  and  the  rose  ;  the  clump 
Of  coppery  sunflowers,  with  the  heat 
Sick  to  the  heart :  the  garden  stump, 
Red  with  geranium-pots  and  sweet 
With  moss  and  ferns,  this  side  the  pump. 

I  rested,  with  one  hesitant  hand 
Upon  the  gate.     The  lonesome  day, 
Droning  with  insects,  made  the  land 
One  dry  stagnation  ;  soaked  with  hay 
And  scents  of  weeds,  the  hot  wind  fanned. 


A  Flower  I  breathed  the  sultry  scents,  my  eyes 
of  I*'        Parched  as  my  lips.     And  yet  I  felt 
Fields        ^jy  limbs  were  ice.     As  one  who  flies 

To  some  strange  woe.      How  sleepy  smelt 
The  hay-sweet  heat  that  soaked  the  skies ! 

Noon  nodded  ;  dreamier,  lonesomer, 

For  one  long,  plaintive,  forestside 

Bird-quaver.  —  And  I  knew  me  near 

Some  heartbreak  anguish  .   .   .   She  had  died. 

I  felt  it,  and  no  need  to  hear  ! 

I  passed  the  quince  and  peartree ;  where 
All  up  the  porch  a  grape-vine  trails  — 
How  strange  that  fruit,  whatever  air 
Or  earth  it  grows  in,  never  fails 
To  find  its  native  flavor  there  ! 

And  she  was  as  a  flower,  too, 
That  grows  its  proper  bloom  and  scent 
No  matter  what  the  soil :  she,  who, 
Born  better  than  her  place,  still  lent 
Grace  to  the  lowliness  she  knew.   .   .   . 

They  met  me  at  the  porch,  and  were 
Sad-eyed  with  weeping.     Then  the  room 
Shut  out  the  country's  heat  and  purr, 
And  left  light  stricken  into  gloom  — 
So  love  and  I  might  look  on  her. 


72 


THE  WHITE  VIGIL. 

T    AST  night  I  dreamed  I  saw  you  lying  dead, 
And  by  your  sheeted  form  stood  all  alone : 
Frail  as  a  flow'r  you  lay  upon  your  bed, 
And  on  your  still  face,  through  the  casement,  shone 
The  moon,  as  lingering  to  kiss  you  there 
FalPn  asleep,  white  violets  in  your  hair. 

Oh,  sick  to  weeping  was  my  soul,  and  sad 
To  breaking  was  my  heart  that  would  not  break ; 
And  for  my  soul's  great  grief  no  tear  I  had, 
No  lamentation  for  my  heart's  deep  ache ; 
Yet  all  I  bore  seemed  more  than  I  could  bear 
Beside  you  dead,  white  violets  in  your  hair. 

A  white  rose,  blooming  at  your  window-bar, 
And  glimmering  in  it,  like  a  fire-fly  caught 
Upon  the  thorns,  the  light  of  one  white  star, 
Looked  on  with  me  ;  as  if  they  felt  and  thought 
As  did  my  heart, —  "How  beautiful  and  fair 
And  young  she  lies,  white  violets  in  her  hair !" 

And  so  we  watched  beside  you,  sad  and  still, 

The  star,  the  rose,  and  I.     The  moon  had  past, 

Like  a  pale  traveler,  behind  the  hill 

With  all  her  echoed  radiance.     At  last 

The  darkness  came  to  hide  my  tears  and  share 

My  watch  by  you,  white  violets  in  your  hair. 


73 


TOO  LATE. 

J   LOOKED  upon  a  dead  girl's  face  and  heard 

What  seemed  the  voice  of  Love  call  unto  me 
Out  of  her  heart ;  whereon  the  charactery 
Of  her  lost  dreams  I  read  there  word  for  word  : — 
How  on  her  soul  no  soul  had  touched,  or  stirred 
Her  Life's  sad  depths  to  rippling  melody, 
Or  made  the  imaged  longing,  there,  to  be 
The  realization  of  a  hope  deferred. 
So  in  her  life  had  Love  behaved  to  her. 
Between  the  lonely  chapters  of  her  years 
And  her  young  eyes  making  no  golden  blur 
With  god-bright  face  and  hair ;  who  led  me  to 
Her  side  at  last,  and  bade  me,  through  my  tears, 
With  Death's  dumb  face,  too  late,  to  see  and  know. 


INTIMATIONS. 

I. 

TS  it  uneasy  moonlight, 
A   On  the  restless  field,  that  stirs  ? 
Or  wild  white  meadow-blossoms 
The  night-wind  bends  and  blurs  ? 

Is  it  the  dolorous  water, 
That  sobs  in  the  wood  and  sighs  ? 
Or  heart  of  an  ancient  oak-tree, 
That  breaks  and,  sighing,  dies  ? 

74 


The  wind  is  vague  with  the  shadows  Intima- 

That  wander  in  No-Man's  Land  ;  tions 

The  water  is  dark  with  the  voices 
That  weep  on  the  Unknown's  strand. 

O  ghosts  of  the  winds  who  call  me ! 

0  ghosts  of  the  whispering  waves  ! 
As  sad  as  forgotten  flowers, 
That  die  upon  nameless  graves  ! 

What  is  this  thing  you  tell  me 

In  tongues  of  a  twilight  race, 

Of  death,  with  the  vanished  features, 

Mantled,  of  my  own  face  ? 

II. 

The  old  enigmas  of  the  deathless  dawns, 

And  riddles  of  the  all  immortal  eves,  — 

That  still  o'er  Delphic  lawns 

Speak  as  the  gods  spoke  through  oracular  leaves — 

1  read  with  new-born  eyes, 
Remembering  how,  a  slave, 

I  lay  with  breast  bared  for  the  sacrifice, 
Once  on  a  temple's  pave. 

Or,  crowned  with  hyacinth  and  helichrys, 
How,  towards  the  altar  in  the  marble  gloom, — 
Hearing  the  magadis 

Dirge  through  the  pale  amaracine  perfume, — 
'Mid  chanting  priests  I  trod, 
With  never  a  sigh  or  pause, 
To  give  my  life  to  pacify  a  god, 
And  save  my  country's  cause. 
75 


Intima-    Again  :  Cyrenian  roses  on  wild  hair, 

ttons        And  oil  and  purple  smeared  on  breasts  and  cheeks, 

How  with  mad  torches  there  — 

Reddening  the  cedars  of  Cithaeron's  peaks  — 

With  gesture  and  fierce  glance, 

Lascivious  Maenad  bands 

Once  drew  and  slew  me  in  the  Pyrrhic  dance, 

With  Bacchanalian  hands. 


III. 

The  music  now  that  lays 
Dim  lips  against  my  ears, 
Some  wild  sad  thing  it  says, 
Unto  my  soul,  of  years 
Long  passed  into  the  haze 
Of  tears. 

Meseems,  before  me  are 
The  dark  eyes  of  a  queen, 
A  queen  of  Istakhar  : 
I  seem  to  see  her  lean 
More  lovely  than  a  star 
Of  mien. 

A  slave,  I  stand  before 
Her  jeweled  throne  ;  I  kneel, 
And,  in  a  song,  once  more 
My  love  for  her  reveal ; 
How  once  I  did  adore 
I  feel. 

76 


Again  her  dark  eyes  gleam  ;  Intima- 

Again  her  red  lips  smile  ;  iions 

And  in  her  face  the  beam 
Of  love  that  knows  no  guile  ; 
And  so  she  seems  to  dream 
A  while. 

Out  of  her  deep  hair  then 
A  rose  she  takes  —  and  I 
Am  made  a  god  o'er  men  ! 
Her  rose,  that  here  did  lie 
When  I,  in  th'  wild-beasts'  den, 
Did  die. 


IV. 

Old  paintings  on  its  wainscots, 
And,  in  its  oaken  hall, 
Old  arras;  and  the  twilight 
Of  slumber  over  all. 

Old  grandeur  on  its  stairways  ; 
And,  in  its  haunted  rooms, 
Old  souvenirs  of  greatness, 
And  ghosts  of  dead  perfumes. 

The  winds  are  phantom  voices 
Around  its  carven  doors ; 
The  moonbeams,  specter  footsteps 
Upon  its  polished  floors. 

77 


Intima-    Old  cedars  build  around  it 
tions        A  solitude  of  sighs ; 

And  the  old  hours  pass  through  it 

With  immemorial  eyes. 

But  more  than  this  I  know  not ; 
Nor  where  the  house  may  be  ; 
Nor  what  its  ancient  secret 
And  ancient  grief  to  me. 

All  that  my  soul  remembers 
Is  that,  —  forgot  almost,  — 
Once,  in  a  former  lifetime, 
'Twas  here  I  loved  and  lost. 


V. 

In  eons  of  the  senses, 
My  spirit  knew  of  yore, 
I  found  the  Isle  of  Circe, 
And  felt  her  magic  lore ; 
And  still  the  soul  remembers 
What  flesh  would  be  once  more. 

She  gave  me  flowers  to  smell  of 
That  wizard  branches  bore, 
Of  weird  and  sorcerous  beauty, 
Whose  stems  dripped  human  gore  — 
Their  scent  when  I  remember 
I  know  that  world  once  more. 

78 


She  gave  me  fruits  to  eat  of  Intima- 

That  grew  beside  the  shore,  tions 

Of  necromantic  ripeness, 
With  human  flesh  at  core  — 
Their  taste  when  I  remember 
I  know  that  life  once  more. 

And  then,  behold  !  a  serpent, 
That  glides  my  face  before, 
With  eyes  of  tears  and  fire 
That  glare  me  o'er  and  o'er  — 
I  look  into  its  eyeballs, 
And  know  myself  once  more. 


VI. 

I  have  looked  in  the  eyes  of  poesy, 
And  sat  in  song's  high  place  ; 
And  the  beautiful  spirits  of  music 
Have  spoken  me  face  to  face  ; 
Yet  here  in  my  soul  there  is  sorrow 
They  never  can  name  nor  trace. 

I  have  walked  with  the  glamour  gladness, 
And  dreamed  with  the  shadow  sleep  ; 
And  the  presences,  love  and  knowledge, 
Have  smiled  in  my  heart's  red  keep ; 
Yet  here  in  my  soul  there  is  sorrow 
For  the  depth  of  their  gaze  too  deep. 

79 


Intima-    The  love  and  the  hope  God  grants  me, 
ttons        xhe  beauty  that  lures  me  on, 

And  the  dreams  of  folly  and  wisdom 
That  thoughts  of  the  spirit  don, 
Are  but  masks  of  an  ancient  sorrow 
Of  a  life  long  dead  and  gone. 

Was  it  sin  ?  or  a  crime  forgotten  ? 

Of  a  love  that  loved  too  well  ? 

That  sat  on  a  throne  of  fire 

A  thousand  years  in  hell  ? 

That  the  soul  with  its  nameless  sorrow 

Remembers  but  can  not  tell  ? 


TWO. 


\X/rITH  her  soft  face  half  turned  to  me, 

Like  an  arrested  moonbeam,  she 
Stood  in  the  cirque  of  that  deep  tree. 

I  took  her  by  the  hands  ;  she  raised 
Her  face  to  mine  ;  and,  half  amazed, 
Remembered  ;  and  we  stood  and  gazed. 

How  good  to  kiss  her  throat  and  hair, 
And  say  no  word !  —  Her  throat  was  bare; 
As  some  moon-fungus  white  and  fair. 

Had  God  not  giv'n  us  life  for  this  ? 
The  world-old,  amorous  happiness 
Of  arms  that  clasp,  and  lips  that  kiss  ! 
80 


The  eloquence  of  limbs  and  arms  !  7 

The  rhetoric  of  breasts,  whose  charms 
Say  to  the  sluggish  blood  what  warms  ! 

Had  God  or  Fiend  assigned  this  hour 

That  bloomed,  — where  love  had  all  of  power, — 

The  senses'  aphrodisiac  flower  ? 

The  dawn  was  far  away.      Nude  night 
Hung  savage  stars  of  sultry  white 
Around  her  bosom's  Ethiop  light. 

Night !  night,  who  gave  us  each  to  each, 
Where  heart  with  heart  could  hold  sweet  speech, 
With  life's  best  gift  within  our  reach. 

And  here  it  was  —  between  the  goals 
Of  flesh  and  spirit,  sex  controls  — 
Took  place  the  marriage  of  our  souls. 


TONES. 

I. 

^  WOMAN,  fair  to  look  upon, 

Where  waters  whiten  with  the  moon : 
While  down  the  glimmer  of  the  lawn 
The  white  moths  swoon. 

A  mouth  of  music  ;  eyes  of  love  ; 
And  hands  of  blended  snow  and  scent, 
That  touch  the  pearl-pale  shadow  of 
An  instrument. 

81 


Tones      And  low  and  sweet  that  song  of  sleep 
After  the  song  of  love  is  hushed  ; 
While  all  the  longing,  here,  to  weep, 
Is  held  and  crushed. 

Then  leafy  silence,  that  is  musk 

With  breath  of  the  magnolia-tree, 

While  dwindles,  moon-white,  through  the  dusk 

Her  drapery. 

Let  me  remember  how  a  heart, 
Romantic,  wrote  upon  that  night  ! 
My  soul  still  helps  me  read  each  part 
Of  it  aright. 

And  like  a  dead  leaf  shut  between 
A  book's  dull  chapters,  stained  and  dark, 
That  page,  with  immemorial  green, 
Of  life  I  mark. 


II. 

It  is  not  well  for  me  to  hear 
That  song's  appealing  melody  : 
The  pain  of  loss  comes  all  too  near, 
Through  it,  to  me. 

The  loss  of  her  whose  love  looks  through 
The  mist  death's  hand  hath  hung  between 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  yew 
Her  grave  is  green. 

82 


Ah,  dream  that  vanished  long  ago  !  Tones 

Oh,  anguish  of  remembered  tears  ! 
And  shadow  of  unlifted  woe 
Athwart  the  years ! 

That  haunt  the  sad  rooms  of  my  days, 
As  keepsakes  of  unperished  love, 
Where  pale  the  memory  of  her  face 
Is  framed  above. 

This  olden  song,  she  used  to  sing, 
Of  love  and  sleep,  is  now  a  charm 
To  open  mystic  doors  and  bring 
Her  spirit  form. 

In  music  making  visible 
One  soul-assertive  memory, 
That  steals  unto  my  side  to  tell 
My  loss  to  me. 


UNFULFILLED. 

T  N  my  dream  last  night  it  seemed  I  stood 

With  a  boy's  glad  heart  in  my  boyhood's  wood. 

The  beryl  green  and  the  cairngorm  brown 

Of  the  day  through  the  deep  leaves  sifted  down. 

The  rippling  drip  of  a  passing  shower 
Rinsed  wild  aroma  from  herb  and  flower. 

83 


Unful-     The  splash  and  urge  of  a  waterfall 

filled        Spread  stainvayed  rocks  with  a  crystal  caul. 

And  I  waded  the  pool  where  the  gravel  gray, 
And  the  last  year's  leaf,  like  a  topaz  lay. 

And  searched  the  strip  of  the  creek's  dry  bed 
For  the  colored  keel  and  the  arrow-head. 

And  I  found  the  cohosh  coigne  the  same, 
Tossing  with  torches  of  pearly  flame. 

The  owlet  dingle  of  vine  and  brier, 

That  the  butterfly-weed  flecked  fierce  with  fire. 

The  elder  edge  with  its  warm  perfume, 
And  the  sapphire  stars  of  the  bluet  bloom ; 

The  moss,  the  fern,  and  the  touch-me-not 
I  breathed,  and  the  mint-smell  keen  and  hot. 

And  I  saw  the  bird,  that  sang  its  best, 
In  the  moted  sunlight  building  its  nest. 

And  I  saw  the  chipmunk's  stealthy  face, 
And  the  rabbit  crouched  in  a  grassy  place. 

And  I  watched  the  crows,  that  cawed  and  cried, 
Hunting  the  hawk  at  the  forest-side ; 

The  bees  that  sucked  in  the  blossoms  slim, 
And  the  wasps  that  built  on  the  lichened  limb. 

84 


And  felt  the  silence,  the  dusk,  the  dread  Unful- 

Of  the  spot  where  they  buried  the  unknown  dead.     filled 

The  water  murmur,  the  insect  hum, 

And  a  far  bird  calling,   Come,  oh,  come!  — 

What  sweeter  music  can  mortals  make 
To  ease  the  heart  of  its  human  ache  !  — 

And  it  seemed  in  my  dream,  that  was  all  too  true, 
That  I  met  in  the  woods  again  with  you. 

A  sun-tanned  face  and  brown  bare  knees, 
And  a  hand  stained  red  with  dewberries. 

And  we  stood  a  moment  some  thing  to  tell, 
And  then  in  the  woods  we  said  farewell. 

But  once  I  met  you  ;  yet,  lo  !  it  seems 
Again  and  again  we  meet  in  dreams. 

And  I  ask  my  soul  what  it  all  may  mean ; 
If  this  is  the  love  that  should  have  been. 

And  oft  and  again  I  wonder,  Can 
What  God  intends  be  changed  by  man  ? 


HOME. 


the  fields  the  camomile 
Seems  blown  steam  in  the  lightning's  glare. 
Unusual  odors  drench  the  air. 
Night  speaks  above ;  the  angry  smile 
Of  storm  within  her  stare. 

The  way  for  me  to-night  ?  —  To-night, 
Is  through  the  wood  whose  branches  fill 
The  road  with  dripping  rain-drops.     Till, 
Between  the  boughs,  a  star-like  light  — 
Our  home  upon  the  hill. 

The  path  for  me  to  take  ?  —  It  goes 
Around  a  trailer-tangled  rock, 
'Mid  puckered  pink  and  hollyhock, 
Unto  a  latch-gate's  unkempt  rose, 
And  door  whereat  I  knock. 

Bright  on  the  old-time  flower-place 
The  lamp  streams  through  the  foggy  pane. 
The  door  is  opened  to  the  rain ; 
And  in  the  door  —  her  happy  face, 
And  eager  hands  again. 


86 


ASHLY  MERE. 


look  in  the  shadowy  water  here, 
The  stagnant  water  of  Ashly  Mere  : 
Where  the  stirless  depths  are  dark  but  clear, 
What  is  the  thing  that  lies  there  ?  — 
A  lily-pod  half  sunk  from  sight  ? 
Or  spawn  of  the  toad  all  water-white  ? 
Or  ashen  blur  of  the  moon's  wan  light  ? 
Or  a  woman's  face  and  eyes  there  ? 

Now  lean  to  the  water  a  listening  ear, 
The  haunted  water  of  Ashly  Mere  : 
What  is  the  sound  that  you  seem  to  hear 
In  the  ghostly  hush  of  the  deeps  there  ?  — 
A  withered  reed  that  the  ripple  lips  ? 
Or  a  night-bird's  wing  that  the  surface  whips  ? 
Or  the  rain  in  a  leaf  that  drips  and  drips  ? 
Or  a  woman's  voice  that  weeps  there  ? 

Now  look  and  listen  !  but  draw  not  near 
The  lonely  water  of  Ashly  Mere  !  — 
For  so  it  happens  this  time  each  year 
As  you  lean  by  the  mere  and  listen  : 
And  the  moaning  voice  I  understand,  — 
For  oft  I  have  watched  it  draw  to  land, 
And  lift  from  the  water  a  ghastly  hand 
And  a  face  whose  eyeballs  glisten. 

And  this  is  the  reason  why  every  year 
To  the  hideous  water  of  Ashly  Mere 
I  come  when  the  woodland  leaves  are  sear, 
And  the  autumn  moon  hangs  hoary  : 
87 


Asbly     For  here  by  the  mere  was  wrought  a  wrong 
Mere       gut  the  old,  old  story  is  over  long  — 

And  woman  is  weak  and  man  is  strong  .   .   , 
And  the  mere's  and  mine  is  the  story. 


BEFORE  THE  TOMB. 

T"^HE  way  went  under  cedared  gloom 
To  moonlight,  like  a  cactus  bloom, 
Before  the  entrance  of  her  tomb. 

I  had  an  hour  of  night  and  thin 
Sad  starlight ;  and  I  set  my  chin 
Against  the  grating  and  looked  in. 

A  gleam,  like  moonlight,  through  a  square 
Of   opening  —  I  knew  not  where  — 
Shone  on  her  coffin  resting  there. 

And  on  its  oval  silver-plate 

I  read  her  name  and  age  and  date, 

And  smiled,  soft-thinking  on  my  hate. 

There  was  no  insect  sound  to  chirr ; 

No  wind  to  make  a  little  stir. 

I  stood  and  looked  and  thought  on  her. 

The  gleam  stole  downward  from  her  head, 
Till  at  her  feet  it  rested  red 
On  Gothic  gold,  that  sadly  said  :  — 
88 


' '  God  to  her  love  lent  a  weak  reed  Before 

Of  strength  :  and  gave  no  light  to  lead  :  the 

Pray  for  her  soul  :   for  it  hath  need. "  Tomb 

There  was  no  night-bird's  twitter  near, 
No  low  vague  water  I  might  hear 
To  make  a  small  sound  in  the  ear. 

The  gleam,  that  made  a  burning  mark 
Of  each  dim  word,  died  to  a  spark  ; 
Then  left  the  tomb  and  coffin  dark. 

I  had  a  little  while  to  wait ; 

And  prayed  with  hands  against  the  grate, 

And  heart  that  yearned  and  knew  too  late. 

There  was  no  light  below,  above, 
To  point  my  soul  the  way  thereof, — 
The  way  of  hate  that  led  to  love. 


REVISITED. 

TT  was  beneath  a  waning  moon  when  all  the 

woods  were  sear, 

And  winds  made  eddies  of  the  leaves  that  whis- 
pered far  and  near, 

I  met  her  on  the  old  mill-bridge  we  parted  at  last 
year. 

89 


Revisited    At  first  I  deemed  it  but  a  mist  that  faltered  in 

that  place, 
An  autumn  mist  beneath  the  trees  that  sentineled 

the  race ; 
Until  I  neared  and  in  the  moon  beheld  her  face 

to  face. 

The  waver  of  the  summer-heat  upon  the  drouth- 
dry  leas ; 

The  shimmer  of  the  thistle- drift  adown  the 
silences ; 

The  gliding  of  the  fairy -fire  between  the  swamp 
and  trees : 

They  qualified  her  presence  as  a  sorrow  may  a 

dream  — 
The  vague  suggestion  of  a  self  ;  the  glimmer  of  a 

gleam  ; 
The  actual  unreal  of  the  things  that  only  seem. 

Where  once  she  came  with  welcome  and  glad  eyes 

all  loving-wise, 
She  passed  and  gave  no  greeting  that  my  heart 

might  recognize, 
With  far-set  face  unseeing  and  sad  unremember- 

ing  eyes. 

It  was  beneath  a  waning  moon  when  woods  were 

bleak  and  sear, 
And  winds   made   whispers    of   the    leaves   that 

eddied  far  and  near, 
I  met  her  ghost  upon  the  bridge  we  parted  at  last 


AT  VESPERS. 

PJlGH  up  in  the  organ-story 

A  girl  stands  slim  and  fair  ; 
And  touched  with  the  casement's  glory 
Gleams  out  her  radiant  hair. 

The  young  priest  kneels  at  the  altar, 
Then  lifts  the  Host  above  ; 
And  the  psalm  intoned  from  the  psalter 
Is  pure  with  patient  love. 

A  sweet  bell  chimes  ;  and  a  censer 
Swings  gleaming  in  the  gloom  ; 
The  candles  glimmer  and  denser 
Rolls  up  the  pale  perfume. 

Then  high  in  the  organ  choir 
A  voice  of  crystal  soars, 
Of  patience  and  soul's  desire, 
That  suffers  and  adores. 

And  out  of  the  altar's  dimness 

An  answering  voice  doth  swell, 

Of  passion  that  cries  from  the  grimness 

And  anguish  of  its  own  hell. 

High  up  in  the  organ -story 
One  kneels  with  a  girlish  grace ; 
And,  touched  with  the  vesper  glory, 
Lifts  her  madonna  face. 


At  One  stands  at  the  cloudy  altar, 

Vespers    A  form  bowed  down  and  thin ; 

The  text  of  the  psalm  in  the  psalter 
He  reads,  is  sorrow  and  sin. 

THE  CREEK. 

Q  CHEERLY,  cheerly  by  the  road 

And  merrily  down  the  hillet ; 
And  where  the  acre-field  is  sowed 
With  bristle-bearded  millet. 

Then  o'er  a  pebbled  path  that  goes, 
Through  vista  and  through  dingle, 
Unto  a  farmstead's  windowed  rose, 
And  roof  of  moss  and  shingle. 

O  darkly,  darkly  through  the  bush, 
And  dimly  by  the  bowlder, 
Where  cane  and  water-cress  grow  lush, 
And  woodland  wilds  are  older. 

Then  o'er  the  cedared  way  that  leads, 
Through  burr  and  bramble-thickets, 
Unto  a  burial-ground  of  weeds 
Fenced  in  with  broken  pickets. 

Then  sadly,  sadly  down  the  vale, 
And  wearily  through  the  rushes, 
Where  sunlight  of  the  noon  is  pale, 
And  e'en  the  zephyr  hushes. 
92 


For  oft  her  young  face  smiled  upon  The  Creek 

My  deeps  here,  willow-shaded  ; 
And  oft  with  bare  feet  in  the  sun 
My  shallows  there  she  waded. 

No  more  beneath  the  twinkling  leaves 
Shall  stand  the  farmer's  daughter !  — 
Sing  softly  past  the  cottage  eaves, 
O  memory-haunted  water  ! 

No  more  shall  bend  her  laughing  face 
Above  me  where  the  rose  is  !  — 
Sigh  softly  past  the  burial-place, 
Where  all  her  youth  reposes  !         i 


ANSWERED. 

T~)O  you  remember  how  that  night  drew  on  ? 
That  night  of  sorrow,  when  the  stars  looked 

wan 

As  eyes  that  gaze  reproachful  in  a  dream, 
Loved  eyes,  long  lost,  and  sadder  than  the  grave  ? 
How  through  the  heaven  stole  the  moon's  gray 

gleam, 

Like  a  nun's  ghost  down  a  cathedral  nave  ?  — 
Do  you  remember  how  that  night  drew  on  ? 

Do  you  remember  the  hard  words  then  said  ? 
Said  to  the  living,  —  now  denied  the  dead,  — 
That  left  me  dead, — long,  long  before  I  died, — 

93 


Amstttred    In  heart  and  spirit  ?  —  me,  your  words  had  slain, 
Telling  how  love  to  my  poor  life  had  lied, 
Armed  with  the  dagger  of  a  pale  disdain. — 
Do  yon  remember  the  hard  words  then  said  ? 

Do  yon  remember,  now  this  night  draws  down 
The  threatening  heavens,  that  the  lightnings  crown 
With  wrecks  of  thunder  ?  when  no  moon  doth  give 
The  clouds  wild  witchery  ?  —  as  in  a  room. 
Behind  the  sorrowful  arras,  still  may  live 
The  pallid  secret  of  the  haunted  gloom. — 
Do  yon  remember,  now  this  night  draws  down  ? 

Do  you  remember,  now  it  comes  to  pass 

Your  form  is  bowed  as  is  the  wind-swept  grass  ? 

And  death  hath  won  from  yon  that  confidence 

Denied  to  life  ?  now  your  sick  soul  rebels 

Against  your  pride  with  tragic  eloquence, 

That   self-crowned  demon  of   the   heart's  fierce 

hells 

Do  you  remember,  now  it  comes  to  pass  ? 

Do  you  remember  ?  —  Bid  your  soul  be  stilL 
Here  passion  hath  surrendered  unto  will, 
And  flesh  to  spirit     Quiet  your  wild  tongue 
And  wilder  heart     Your  kiss  is  naught  to  me. 
The  instrument  love  gave  yon  lies  unstrung, 
Silent,  forsaken  of  all  melody. 
Do  you  remember  ?  —  Bid  your  soul  be  stilL 


WOMAN'S  PORTION. 

I. 

'"PHE  leaves  are  shivering  on  the  thorn, 
x     Drearily ; 

And  sighing  wakes  the  lean-eyed  morn, 
Wearily. 

I  press  my  thin  face  to  the  pane, 

Drearily ; 

But  never  will  he  come  again. 

(Wearily.) 

The  rain  hath  sicklied  day  with  haze, 

Drearily  ; 

My  tears  run  downward  as  I  gaze, 

Wearily. 

The  mist  and  morn  spake  unto  me, 
Drearily  : 

"  What  is  this  thing  God  gives  to  thee  ?  " 
(Wearily.) 

I  said  unto  the  morn  and  mist, 
Drearily : 

"The  babe  unborn  whom  sin  hath  kissed." 
(Wearily.) 

The  morn  and  mist  spake  unto  me, 
Drearily  : 

"What  is  this  thing  which  thou  dost  see  ?  " 
(Wearily.) 

95 


Woman's   I  said  unto  the  mist  and  morn, 
Portion      Drearily : 

« « The  shame  of  man  and  woman's  scorn. " 
(Wearily.) 

« «  He  loved  thee  not, "  they  made  reply, 
Drearily. 

I  said,  »  Would  God  had  let  me  die  !  " 
(Wearily.) 


II. 

My  dreams  are  as  a  closed  up  book, 

(Drearily.) 

Upon  whose  clasp  of  love  I  look, 

Wearily. 

All  night  the  rain  raved  overhead, 

Drearily  ; 

All  night  I  wept  awake  in  bed, 

Wearily. 

I  heard  the  wind  sweep  wild  and  wide, 

Drearily  ; 

I  turned  upon  my  face  and  sighed, 

Wearily. 

The  wind  and  rain  spake  unto  me, 
Drearily  : 

•  'What  is  this  thing  God  takes  from  thee  ? 
(Wearily.) 

96 


I  said  unto  the  rain  and  wind,  Woman's 

Drearily :  Portion 

The  love,  for  which  my  soul  hath  sinned." 
(Wearily.) 

The  rain  and  wind  spake  unto  me, 
Drearily : 

•  What  are  these  things  thou  still  dost  see  ? " 
(Wearily.) 

I  said  unto  the  wind  and  rain, 
Drearily  : 

'  Regret,  and  hope  despair  hath  slain. " 
(Wearily.) 

1  Thou  lov'st  him  still, "  they  made  reply, 
Drearily. 

I  said,  «  That  God  would  let  me  die  !  " 
(Wearily.) 


FINALE. 


QO  let  it  be.     Thou  wilt  not  say  't  was  I ! 

Here  in  life's  temple,  where  thy  soul  may  see, 
Look  how  the  beauty  of  our  love  doth  lie, 
Shattered  in  shards,  a  dead  divinity  ! 
Approach  :  kneel  down  :  yea,  render  up  one  sigh  ! 
This  is  the  end.     What  need  to  tell  it  thee ! 
So  let  it  be. 

97 


Finale      So  let  it  be.     Care,  who  hath  stood  with  him, 
And  sorrow,  who  sat  by  him  deified, 
For  whom  his  face  made  comfort,  lo  !  how  dim 
They  heap  his  altar  which  they  can  not  hide, 
While  memory's  lamp  swings  o'er  it,  burning  slim. 
This  it  the  end.     What  shall  be  said  beside  ? 
So  let  it  be. 

So  let  it  be.      Did  we  not  drain  the  wine, 
Red,  of  love's  sacramental  chalice,  when 
He  laid  sweet  sanction  on  thy  lips  and  mine  ? 
Dash  it  aside  !     Lo,  who  will  fill  again 
Now  it  is  empty  of  the  god  divine ! 
This  is  the  end.     Yea,  let  us  say  Amen. 
So  let  it  be. 


THE  CROSS. 

IP  HE  cross  I  bear  no  man  shall  know  — 
No  man  can  ease  the  cross  I  bear !  — 
Alas  !  the  thorny  path  of  woe 
Up  the  steep  hill  of  care  ! 

There  is  no  word  to  comfort  me ; 
No  sign  to  help  my  bended  head ; 
Deep  night  lies  over  land  and  sea, 
And  silence  dark  and  dread. 

To  strive,  it  seems,  that  I  was  born, 
For  that  which  others  shall  obtain  ; 
The  disappointment  and  the  scorn 
Alone  for  me  remain. 


One  half  my  life  is  overpast ;  The  Cross 

The  other  half  I  contemplate  — 
Meseems  the  past  doth  but  forecast 
A  darker  future  state. 

Sick  to  the  heart  of  that  which  makes 
Me  hope  and  struggle  and  desire, 
The  aspiration  here  that  aches 
With  ineffectual  fire  ; 

While  inwardly  I  know  the  lack, 
The  insufficiency  of  power, 
Each  past  day's  retrospect  makes  black 
Each  morrow's  coming  hour. 

Now  in  my  youth  would  I  could  die  !  — 
As  others  love  to  live,  —  go  down 
Into  the  grave  without  a  sigh, 
Oblivious  of  renown ! 


THE  FOREST  OF  DREAMS. 
I. 

\X/'HERE  was  I  last  Friday  night  ?  — 
Within  the  forest  of  dark  dreams 
Following  the  blur  of  a  goblin-light, 
That  led  me  over  ugly  streams, 
Whereon  the  scum  of  the  spawn  was  spread, 
And  the  blistered  slime,  in  stagnant  seams  ; 

99 


Tbe  Where  the  weed  and  the  moss  swam  black  and  dead, 

Forest       Like  a  drowned  girl's  hair  in  the  ropy  ooze : 

Dreams     And  the  Jack-°'-lantern  tight  that  led, 
Flickered  the  fox-fire  trees  o'erhead, 
And  the  owl -like  things  at  airy  cruise. 


Where  was  I  last  Friday  night  ?  — 
Within  the  forest  of  dark  dreams 
Following  a  form  of  shadowy  white 
With  my  own  wild  face  it  seems. 
Did  a  raven's  wing  just  flap  my  hair  ? 
Or  a  web-winged  bat  brush  by  my  face  ? 
Or  the  hand  of  —  something  I  did  not  dare 
Look  round  to  see  in  that  obscene  place  ? 
Where  the  boughs,  with  leaves  a-devil's-dance, 
And  the  thorn-tree  bush,  where  the  wind  made  moan, 
Had  more  than  a  strange  significance 
Of  life  and  of  evil  not  their  own. 

III. 

Where  was  I  last  Friday  night  ?  — 
Within  the  forest  of  dark  dreams 
Seeing  the  mists  rise  left  and  right, 
Like  the  leathery  fog  that  heaves  and  steams 
From  the  rolling  horror  of  Hell's  red  streams. 
While  the  wind,  that  tossed  in  the  tattered  tree, 
And  danced  alone  with  the  last  mad  leaf.   .   .   . 
Or  was  it  the  wind  ? .   .   .   .   kept  whispering  me  — 
Now  bury  it  here  with  its  own  black  grief, 
And  its  eyes  of  fire  you  can  not  brave  ! " — 
And  in  the  darkness  I  seemed  to  see 
My  own  self  digging  my  soul  a  grave. 
100 


LYNCHERS. 


A 


T  the  moon's  down-going,  let  it  be 
On  the  quarry  hill  with  its  one  gnarled  tree.  .  . 


The  red-rock  road  of  the  underbrush, 

Where  the  woman  came  through  the  summer  hush. 

The  sumach  high,  and  the  elder  thick, 

Where  we  found  the  stone  and  the  ragged  stick. 

The  trampled  road  of  the  thicket,  full 
Of  foot-prints  down  to  the  quarry  pool. 

The  rocks  that  ooze  with  the  hue  of  lead, 
Where  we  found  her  lying  stark  and  dead. 

The  scraggy  wood  ;  the  negro  hut, 

With  its  doors  and  windows  locked  and  shut. 

A  secret  signal ;  a  foot's  rough  tramp ; 
A  knock  at  the  door ;  a  lifted  lamp. 

An  oath  ;  a  scuffle  ;  a  ring  of  masks  ; 
A  voice  that  answers  a  voice  that  asks. 

A  group  of  shadows  ;  the  moon's  red  fleck  ; 
A  running  noose  and  a  man's  bared  neck. 

A  word,  a  curse,  and  a  shape  that  swings  ; 
The  lonely  night  and  a  bat's  black  wings.  .  .  . 

At  the  moon's  down-going,  let  it  be 

On  the  quarry  hill  with  its  one  gnarled  tree. 


KU  KLUX. 


have  sent  him  seeds  of  the  melon's  core, 
And  nailed  a  warning  upon  his  door ; 
By  the  Ku  Klux  laws  we  can  do  no  more. 

Down  in  the  hollow,  'mid  crib  and  stack, 

The  roof  of  his  low-porched  house  looms  black ; 

Not  a  line  of  light  at  the  doorsill's  crack. 

Yet  arm  and  mount !  and  mask  and  ride  ! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide  ! 

And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 

The  clouds  blow  heavy  towards  the  moon. 
The  edge  of  the  storm  will  reach  it  soon. 
The  killdee  cries  and  the  lonesome  loon. 

The  clouds  shall  flush  with  a  wilder  glare 
Than  the  lightning  makes  with  its  angled  flare, 
When  the  Ku  Klux  verdict  is  given  there. 

In  the  pause  of  the  thunder  rolling  low, 
A  rifle's  answer  —  who  shall  know 
Fromthewind's  fiercehurl  and  the  rain's  blackblow? 

Only  the  signature  written  grim 

At  the  end  of  the  message  brought  to  him  — 

A  hempen  rope  and  a  twisted  limb. 

So  arm  and  mount !  and  mask  and  ride  ! 

The  hounds  can  sense  though  the  fox  may  hide ! 

And  for  a  word  too  much  men  oft  have  died. 


REMBRANDTS. 

I. 

T    SHALL  not  soon  forget  her  and  her  eyes, 
The  haunts  of  hate,  where  suffering  seemed  to 

write 

Its  own  dark  name,  whose  syllables  are  sighs, 
In  strange  and  starless  night. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  her  and  her  face, 
So  quiet,  yet  uneasy  as  a  dream, 
That  stands  on  tip-toe  in  a  haunted  place 
And  listens  for  a  scream. 

She  made  me  feel  as  one,  alone,  may  feel 
In  some  grand  ghostly  house  of  olden  time, 
The  presence  of  a  treasure,  walls  conceal, 
The  secret  of  a  crime. 


II. 


With  lambent  faces,  mimicking  the  moon, 
The  water  lilies  lie  ; 

Dotting  the  darkness  of  the  long  lagoon 
Like  some  black  sky. 

A  face,  the  whiteness  of  a  water-flower, 
And  pollen-golden  hair, 

In  shadow  half,  half  in  the  moonbeams'  glower, 
Lifts  slowly  there. 

103 


Rembrandts  A  young  girl's  face,  death  makes  cold  marble  of, 
Turned  to  the  moon  and  me, 
Sad  with  the  pathos  of  unspeakable  love, 
Floating  to  sea. 


III. 

One  listening  bent,  in  dread  of  something  coming, 
He  can  not  see  nor  balk  — 
A  phantom  footstep,  in  the  ghostly  gloaming, 
That  haunts  a  terraced  walk. 

Long  has  he  given  his  whole  heart's  hard  endeavor 
Unto  the  work  begun, 

Still  hoping  love  would  watch  it  grow  and  ever 
Turn  kindly  eyes  thereon. 

Now  in  his  life  he  feels  there  nears  an  hour, 
Inevitable,  alas  ! 

When  in  the  darkness  he  shall  cringe  and  cower, 
And  see  his  dead  self  pass. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  HILLS. 

'T* HOUGH  red  my  blood  hath  left  its  trail 

For  five  far  miles,  I  shall  not  fail, 
As  God  in  Heaven  wills  !  — 
The  way  was  long  through  that  black  land. 
With  sword  on  hip  and  horn  in  hand, 
At  last  before  thy  walls  I  stand, 
O  Lady  of  the  Hills  ! 

104 


No  seneschal  shall  put  to  scorn  The  Lady 

The  summons  of  my  bugle-horn  !  °f  Me 

No  man-at-arms  shall  stay  !  —  Hills 

Yea  !  God  hath  helped  my  strength  too  far 
By  bandit-caverned  wood  and  scar 
To  give  it  pause  now,  or  to  bar 
My  all-avenging  way. 

This  hope  still  gives  my  body  strength  — 
To  kiss  her  eyes  and  lips  at  length 
Where  all  her  kin  can  see  ; 
Then  'mid  her  towers  of  crime  and  gloom, 
Sin-haunted  like  the  Halls  of  Doom, 
To  smite  her  dead  in  that  wild  room 
Red-lit  with  revelry. 

Madly  I  rode  ;  nor  once  did  slack. 
Before  my  face  the  world  rolled,  black 
With  nightmare  wind  and  rain. 
Witch-lights  mocked  at  me  on  the  fen ; 
And  through  the  forest  followed  then 
Gaunt  eyes  of  wolves ;  and  ghosts  of  men 
Moaned  by  me  on  the  plain. 

Still  on  I  rode.      My  way  was  clear 

From  that  wild  time  when,  spear  to  spear, 

Deep  in  the  wind-torn  wood, 

I  met  him  !   .    .    .    Dead  he  lies  beneath 

Their  trysting  oak.      I  clenched  my  teeth 

And  rode.      My  wound  scarce  let  me  breathe, 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  blood. 

105 


The  Lady    And  here  I  am.     The  blood  may  blind 
of  tbe         My  eyesight  now  ...   yet  I  shall  find 
Her  by  some  inner  eye  ! 
For  God  —  He  hath  this  deed  in  care  !  — 
Yea  !  I  shall  kiss  again  her  hair, 
And  tell  her  of  her  leman  there, 
Then  smite  her  dead  —  and  die. 


REVEALMENT. 

AT  moonset  when  ghost  speaks  with  ghost, 
And  spirits  meet  where  once  they  sinned, 
Between  the  bournes  of  found  and  lost, 
My  soul  met  her  soul  on  the  wind, 
My  late-lost  Evalind. 

I  kissed  her  mouth.      Her  face  was  wild. 
Two  burning  shadows  were  her  eyes, 
Wherefrom  the  maiden  love,  that  smiled 
A  heartbreak  smile  of  severed  ties, 
Gazed  with  a  wan  surprise. 

Then  suddenly  I  seemed  to  see 

No  more  her  shape  where  beauty  bloomed  .    . 

My  own  sad  self  gazed  up  at  me  — 

My  sorrow,  that  had  so  assumed 

The  form  of  her  entombed. 


106 


HEART'S  ENCOURAGEMENT. 

"^^OR  time  nor  all  his  minions 

Of  sorrow  or  of  pain, 
Shall  dash  with  vulture  pinions 
The  cup  she  fills  again 
Within  the  dream -dominions 
Of  life  where  she  doth  reign. 

Clothed  on  with  bright  desire 
And  hope  that  makes  her  strong, 
With  limbs  of  frost  and  fire, 
She  sits  above  all  wrong, 
Her  heart,  a  living  lyre, 
Her  love,  its  only  song. 

And  in  the  waking  pauses 

Of  weariness  and  care, 

And  when  the  dark  hour  draws  his 

Black  weapon  of  despair, 

Above  effects  and  causes 

We  hear  its  music  there. 

The  longings  life  hath  near  it 
Of  love  we  yearn  to  see ; 
The  dreams  it  doth  inherit 
Of  immortality ; 
Are  callings  of  her  spirit 
To  something  yet  to  be. 

107 


NIGHTFALL. 

C")  DAY,  so  sicklied  o'er  with  night ! 
^     O  dreadful  fruit  of  fallen  dusk  !  — 
A  Circe  orange,  golden-bright, 
With  horror  'neath  its  husk. 

And  I,  who  gave  the  promise  heed 
That  made  life's  tempting  surface  fair, 
Have  I  not  eaten  to  the  seed 
Its  ashes  of  despair  ! 

O  silence  of  the  drifted  grass ! 

And  immemorial  eloquence 

Of  stars  and  winds  and  waves  that  pass 

And  God's  indifference  ! 

Leave  me  alone  with  sleep  that  knows 
Not  any  thing  that  life  may  keep  — 
Not  e'en  the  pulse  that  comes  and  goes 
In  germs  that  climb  and  creep. 

Or  if  an  aspiration  pale 
Must  quicken  there  —  oh,  let  the  spot 
Grow  weeds  !  that  dust  may  so  prevail, 
Where  spirit  once  could  not ! 


PAUSE. 

CO  sick  of  dreams  !  the  dreams,  that  stain 

The  aisle,  along  which  life  must  pass, 
With  hues  of  mystic  colored  glass, 
That  fills  the  windows  of  the  brain. 

108 


So  sick  of  thoughts  !  the  thoughts,  that  carve    Pause 

The  house  of  days  with  arabesques 

And  gargoyles,  where  the  mind  grotesques 

In  masks  of  hope  and  faith  who  starve. 

Here  lay  thy  over  weary  head 
Upon  my  bosom  !     Do  not  weep  !  — 
:  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. " — 
Heart  of  my  heart,  be  comforted. 


ABOVE  THE  VALES. 


2  went  by  ways  of  bygone  days, 
Up  mountain  heights  of  story, 
Where  lost  in  vague,  historic  haze, 
Tradition,  crowned  with  battle-bays, 
Sat  'mid  her  ruins  hoary. 

Where  wing  to  wing  the  eagles  cling 

And  torrents  have  their  sources, 

War  rose  with  bugle  voice  to  sing 

Of  wild  spear  thrust,  and  broadsword  swing, 

And  rush  of  men  and  horses. 

Then  deep  below,  where  orchards  show 
A  home  here,  here  a  steeple, 
We  heard  a  simple  shepherd  go, 
Singing,  beneath  the  afterglow, 
A  love-song  of  the  people. 

109 


As  in  the  trees  the  song  did  cease, 
Vales          With  matron  eyes  and  holy 

Peace,  from  the  cornlands  of  increase, 
And  rose-beds  of  love's  victories, 
Spake,  smiling,  of  the  lowly. 

A  SUNSET  FANCY. 


the  west,  a  lake 
Of  flame  that  seems  to  shake 
As  if  the  Midgard  snake 
Deep  down  did  breathe  : 
An  isle  of  purple  glow, 
Where  rosy  rivers  flow 
Down  peaks  of  cloudy  snow 
With  fire  beneath. 

And  there  the  Tower-of-  Night, 
With  windows  all  a-light, 
Frowns  on  a  burning  height  ; 
Wherein  she  sleeps,  — 
Young  through  the  years  of  doom,  — 
Veiled  with  her  hair's  gold  gloom, 
The  pale  Valkyrie  whom 
Enchantment  keeps. 

THE  FEN-FIRE. 

HP  HE  misty  rain  makes  dim  my  face, 
The  night's  black  cloak  is  o'er  me  ; 
I  tread  the  dripping  cypress-place, 
A  flickering  light  before  me. 


Out  of  the  death  of  leaves  that  rot  The 

And  ooze  and  weedy  water,  Fen-Fire 

My  form  was  breathed  to  haunt  this  spot, 
Death's  immaterial  daughter. 

The  owl  that  whoops  upon  the  yew, 
The  snake  that  lairs  within  it, 
Have  seen  my  wild  face  flashing  blue 
For  one  fantastic  minute. 

But  should  you  follow  where  my  eyes 
Like  some  pale  lamp  decoy  you, 
Beware  !  lest  suddenly  I  rise 
With  love  that  shall  destroy  you. 


TO  ONE  READING  THE  MORTE  D'ARTHURE. 

Q   DAUGHTER  of  our  Southern  sun, 

Sweet  sister  of  each  flower, 
Dost  dream  in  terraced  Avalon 
A  shadow-haunted  hour  ? 
Or  stand  with  Guinevere  upon 
Some  ivied  Camelot  tower  ? 

Or  in  the  wind  dost  breathe  the  musk 
That  blows  Tintagel's  sea  on  ? 
Or  'mid  the  lists  by  castled  Usk 
Hear  some  wild  tourney's  paeon  ? 
Or  'neath  the  Merlin  moons  of  dusk 
Dost  muse  in  old  Casrleon  ? 


To  One       Or  now  of  Launcelot,  and  then 
Reading      of  Arthur,  'mid  the  roses, 

Jjj^k         Dost  sPeak  with  wilv  vivien  ? 
£  Arthur e   ^r  w^ere  the  shade  reposes, 

Dost  walk  with  stately  armored  men 

In  marble-fountained  closes  ? 

So  speak  the  dreams  within  thy  gaze, 

The  dreams  thy  spirit  cages, 

Would  that  Romance — which  on  thee  lays 

The  spell  of  bygone  ages — 

Held  me  !  a  memory  of  those  days, 

A  portion  of  its  pages  ! 


STROLLERS. 


I. 


\\7~E  have  no  castles, 

We  have  no  vassals, 

We  have  no  riches,  no  gems  and  no  gold 
Nothing  to  ponder, 
Nothing  to  squander  — 
Let  us  go  wander 
As  minstrels  of  old. 


You  with  your  lute,  love, 

I  with  my  flute,  love, 

Let  us  make  music  by  mountain  and  sea ; 


You  with  your  glances,  Strollers 

I  with  my  dances, 
Singing  romances 
Of  old  chivalry. 


III. 

Derry  down  derry ! 

Good  folk,  be  merry  ! 

Hither,  and  hearken  where  happiness  is  ! 

Never  go  borrow 

Care  of  to-morrow, 

Never  go  sorrow 

While  life  hath  a  kiss." 


IV. 

Let  the  day  gladden 

Or  the  night  sadden, 

We  will  be  merry  in  sunshine  or  snow ; 

You  with  your  rhyme,  love, 

I  with  my  chime,  love, 

We  will  make  time,  love, 

Dance  as  we  go. 


V. 

Nothing  is  ours, 

Only  the  flowers, 

Meadows,  and  stars,  and  the  heavens  above  ; 


Strollers    Nothing  to  lie  for, 
Nothing  to  sigh  for, 
Nothing  to  die  for 
While  still  we  have  love. 

VI. 

' i  Deny  down  derry  ! 
Good  folk,  be  merry  ! 
Hither,  and  hearken  a  word  that  is  sooth 
Care  ye  not  any, 
If  ye  have  many 
Or  not  a  penny, 
If  still  ye  have  youth  !  " 


HAUNTED. 

"  HEN  grave  the  twilight  settles  o'er  my  roof, 
And  from  the  haggard  oaks  unto  my  door 
The  rain  comes,  wild  as  one  who  rides  before 
His  enemies  that  follow,  hoof  to  hoof  ; 
And  in  each  window's  gusty  curtain-woof 
The  rain-wind  sighs,  like  one  who  mutters  o'er 
Some  tale  of  love  and  crime ;  and,  on  the  floor, 
The  sunset  spreads  red  stains  as  bloody  proof  ; 
From  hall  to  hall  and  stealthy  stair  to  stair, 
Through  all   the  house,  a   dread  that  drags  me 

toward 

The  ancient  dusk  of  that  avoided  room, 
Wherein  she  sits  with  ghostly  golden  hair, 
And  eyes  that  gaze  beyond  her  soul's  sad  doom, 
Bending  above  an  unreal  harpsichord. 
114 


PRyETERITA. 

LOW  belts  of  rushes  ragged  with  the  blast ; 

Lagoons  of  marish  reddening  with  the  west ; 
And  o'er  the  marsh  the  water-fowl's  unrest 
While  daylight  dwindles  and  the  dusk  falls  fast. 
Set  in  sad  walls,  all  mossy  with  the  past, 
An  old  stone  gateway  with  a  crumbling  crest ; 
A  garden  where  death  drowses  manifest  ; 
And  in  gaunt  yews  the  shadowy  house  at  last. 
Here,  like  some  unseen  spirit,  silence  talks 
With  echo  and  the  wind  in  each  gray  room 
Where  melancholy  slumbers  with  the  rain  : 
Or,  like  some  gentle  ghost,  the  moonlight  walks 
In  the  dim  garden,  which  her  smile  makes  bloom 
With  all  the  old-time  loveliness  again. 


THE  SWASHBUCKLER. 

CQUAT-NOSED  and  broad,  of  big  and  pompous 

port; 

A  tavern  visage,  apoplexy  haunts, 
All  pimple-puffed  ;   the  Falstaff-like  resort 
Of  fat  debauchery,  whose  veined  cheek  flaunts 
A  flabby  purple  :  rusty-spurred  he  stands 
In  rakehell  boots  and  belt,  and  hanger  that 
Claps  when,  with  greasy  gauntlets  on  his  hands, 
He  swaggers  past  in  cloak  and  slouch-plumed  hat. 
Aggression  marches  armies  in  his  words  ; 
And  in  his  oaths  great  deeds  ride  cap-a-pie ; 


The  His   looks,  his   gestures    breathe   the    breath  of 

Swash-          swords ; 

And  in  his  carriage  camp  all  wars  to  be  : 
With  him  of  battles  there  shall  be  no  lack 
While  buxom  wenches  are  and  stoops  of  sack. 


THE  WITCH. 

CHE  gropes  and  hobbles,  where   the   dropsied 

rocks 

Are  hairy  with  the  lichens  and  the  twist 
Of  knotted  wolf's-bane,  mumbling  in  the  mist, 
Hawk-nosed  and  wrinkle-eyed  with  scrawny  locks. 
At  her  bent  back  the  sick-faced  moonlight  mocks, 
Like  some  lewd  evil  whom  the  Fiend  hath  kissed  ; 
Thrice  at  her  feet  the  slipping  serpent  hissed, 
And  thrice  the  owl  called  to  the  forest  fox — 
What  sabboth  brew  dost  now  intend  ?     What  root 
Dost  seek  for,  seal  for  what  satanic  spell 
Of  incantations  and  demoniac  fire  ? 
From  thy  rude  hut,  hill-huddled  in  the  brier, 
What  dark  familiar  points  thy  sure  pursuit, 
With  burning  eyes,  gaunt  with  the  glow  of  Hell  ? 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST. 

f~\  A  KS  and  a  water.      By  the  water  —  eyes, 

Ice-green  and  steadfast  as  cold  stars  ;  and 

hair 

Yellow  as  eyes  deep  in  a  she-wolf's  lair ; 
116 


And  limbs,  like  darkness  that  the  lightning  dyes.     The 

The  humped  oaks  stand  black  under  iron  skies  ;       Somnam- 

The  dry  wind  whirls  the  dead  leaves  everywhere  ; 

Wild  on  the  water  falls  a  vulture  glare 

Of  moon,  and  wild  the  circling  raven  flies. 

Again  the  power  of  this  thing  hath  laid 

Illusion  on  him  :  and  he  seems  to  hear 

A  sweet  voice  calling  him  beyond  his  gates 

To  longed-for  love  ;  he  comes ;   each  forest  glade 

Seems  reaching  out  white  arms  to  draw  him  near — 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  death  that  waits. 


OPIUM. 

On  reading  De  Quincey's  "  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater." 

J   SEEMED  to  stand  before  a  temple  walled 

From  shadows  and  night's  unrealities  ; 
Filled  with  dark  music  of  dead  memories, 
And  voices,  lost  in  darkness,  aye  that  called. 
I  entered.     And,  beneath  the  dome's  high-hailed 
Immensity,  one  forced  me  to  my  knees 
Before  a  blackness  —  throned  'mid  semblances 
And  spectres  —  crowned  with  flames  of  emerald. 
Then,  lo  !  two  shapes  that  thundered  at  mine  ears 
The  names  of  Horror  and  Oblivion, 
Priests  of  this  god,  —  and  bade  me  die  and  dream. 
Then,  in  the  heart  of  hell,  a  thousand  years 
Meseemed  I  lay  —  dead  ;  while  the  iron  stream 
Of  Time  beat  out  the  seconds,  one  by  one. 


117 


MUSIC  AND  SLEEP. 

HpHESE  have  a  life  that  hath  no  part  in  death  ; 
These   circumscribe   the  soul   and  make  it 

strong ; 

Between  the  breathing  of  a  dream  and  song, 
Building  a  world  of  beauty  in  a  breath. 
Unto  the  heart  the  voice  of  this  one  saith 
Ideals,  its  emotions  live  among  ; 
Unto  the  mind  the  other  speaks  a  tongue 
Of  visions,  where  the  guess,  we  christen  faith, 
May  face  the  fact  of  immortality  — 
As  may  a  rose  its  unembodied  scent, 
Or  star  its  own  reflected  radiance. 
We  do  not  know  these  save  unconsciously, 
To  whose  mysterious  shadows  God  hath  lent 
No  certain  shape,  no  certain  countenance. 

AMBITION. 

^^OW  to  my  lips  lift  thou  some  opiate 

Of  black  forgetfulness  !  while  in  thy  gaze 
Still  lures  the  loveless  beauty  that  betrays, 
And  in  thy  mouth  the  music  that  is  hate. 
No  promise  more  hast  thou  to  make  me  wait ; 
No  smile  to  cozen  my  sick  heart  with  praise ! 
Far,  far  behind  thee  stretch  laborious  days, 
And  far  before  thee,  labors  soon  and  late. 
Thine  is  the  fen-fire  that  we  deem  a  star, 
Flying  before  us,  ever  fugitive, 
Thy  mocking  policy  still  holds  afar  : 
And  thine  the  voice,  to  which  our  longings  give 
Hope's  siren  face,  that  speaks  us  sweet  and  fair, 
Only  to  lead  us  captives  to  Despair. 
118 


DESPONDENCY. 

^"OT  all  the  bravery  that  day  puts  on 

Of  gold  and  azure,  ardent  or  austere, 
Shall  ease  my  soul  of  sorrow ;  grown  more  dear 
Than  all  the  joy  that  heavenly  hope  may  don. 
Far  up  the  skies  the  rumor  of  the  dawn 
May  run,  and  eve  like  some  wild  torch  appear ; 
These  shall  not  change  the  darkness,  gathered  here, 
Of  thought,  that  rusts  like  an  old  sword  undrawn. 
Oh,  for  a  place  deep-sunken  from  the  sun  ! 
A  wildwood  cave  of  primitive  rocks  and  moss ! 
Where   Sleep    and    Silence  —  breast    to   married 

breast  — 

Lie  with  their  child,  night-eyed  Oblivion  ; 
Where,  freed  from  all  the  trouble  of  my  cross, 
I  might  forget,  I  might  forget,  and  rest ! 


DESPAIR. 

ClHUT  in  with  phantoms  of  life's  hollow  hopes, 

And  shadows  of  old  sins  satiety  slew, 
And  the  young  ghosts  of  the  dead  dreams  love 

knew, 

Out  of  the  day  into  the  night  she  gropes. 
Behind  her,  high  the  silvered  summit  slopes 
Of  strength  and  faith,  she  will  not  turn  to  view ; 
But  towards  the  cave  of  weakness,  harsh  of  hue, 
She  goes,  where  all  the  dropsied  horror  ropes. 
There  is  a  voice  of  waters  in  her  ears, 
And  on  her  brow  a  wind  that  never  dies  : 
119 


Despair     One  is  the  anguish  of  desired  tears ; 
One  is  the  sorrow  of  unuttered  sighs  ; 
And,  burdened  with  the  immemorial  years, 
Downward  she  goes  with  never  lifted  eyes. 

SIN. 


is  a  legend  of  an  old  Hartz  tower 
That  tells  of  one,  a  noble,  who  had  sold 
His  soul  unto  the  Fiend ;  who  grew  not  old 
On  this  condition  :  That  the  demon's  power 
Cease  every  midnight  for  a  single  hour, 
And  in  that  hour  his  body  should  be  cold, 
His  limbs  grow  shriveled,  and  his  face,  behold  ! 
Become  a  death's-head  in  the  taper's  glower. — 
So  unto  Sin  Life  gives  his  best.      Her  arts 
Make  all  his  outward  seeming  beautiful 
Before  the  world  ;  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
Abides  an  hour  when  her  strength  is  null ; 
When  he  shall  feel  the  death  through  all  his  parts 
Strike,  and  his  countenance  become  a  skull. 

INSOMNIA. 

IT  seems  that  dawn  will  never  climb 

The  eastern  hills ; 

And,  clad  in  mist  and  flame  and  rime, 
Make  flashing  highways  of  the  rills. 

The  night  is  as  an  ancient  way 
Through  some  dead  land, 
Whereon  the  ghosts  of  Memory 
And  Sorrow  wander  hand  in  hand. 


By  which  man's  works  ignoble  seem,  Insomnia 

Unbeautif  ul ; 

And  grandeur,  but  the  ruined  dream 

Of  some  proud  queen,  crowned  with  a  skull. 

A  way  past-peopled,  dark  and  old, 

That  stretches  far  — 

Its  only  real  thing,  the  cold 

Vague  light  of  sleep's  one  fitful  star. 


ENCOURAGEMENT. 

HPo  help  our  tired  hope  to  toil, 

Lo !   have  we  not  the  council  here 
Of  trees,  that  to  all  hope  appear 
As  sermons  of  the  soil  ? 

To  help  our  flagging  faith  to  rise, 
Lo  !  have  we  not  the  high  advice 
Of  stars,  that  for  all  faith  suffice 
As  gospels  of  the  skies  ? 

Sustain  us,  Lord  !  and  help  us  climb, 
With  hope  and  faith  made  strong  and  great, 
The  rock-rough  pathway  of  our  fate, 
The  care-dark  way  of  time  ! 


of  the  poems 
mchuled  in  this  volume,  fonts  are  due  to  The 
Chop-Book,  Cosmopolitan,  Lppmcotfs,  Center,, 
Afar  England.  Atlantic,  and  Harper's. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


,* 

FEB    61988 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


THE  LIBRARY 

CF  CAISFORMU, 
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3S       Caweln  - 
L2?7  The  garden  of 
}l6     dreams . 


PS 

1277 

G16 


